THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 


GIFT  OF 

Lirs.  George  Papashvily 


THE    DUCHESS. 


By  "  THE  DUCHESS," 

Author  of  "Molly  r>  awn,"  "Airy  Fairy  Lilian,"  "Mrs.  Geoffrey" 
''Dick's  Sweetheart,"  "FJiyllis,"  etc.,  etc. 


NEW   YORK: 

A.  L.  BUET,  PUBLISHER. 


GIFT 


THE  DUCHESS. 


CHAPTER  L 


"  Except  wind  stands  as  never  it  stood. 
It  is  an  ill  wind  turns  none  to  good." 

*'  But  who  is  it,  dad?"  asks  she,  leaning  her  elbows  on 
the  breakfast-table  and  smiling  at  him  over  the  tea-pot. 
"  Who  is  the  writer  of  that  voluminous  letter?  As  a  rule 
they  don't  take  so  much  ink  to  ask  for  their  just  dues." 

"  Who  should  it  be  but  your  own  first  cousin,  my  dear, 
Denis  Delaney,  my  only  brother's  son,  and  the  head  of 
all  the  family?" 

"  Bless  me  I  What  titles  to  honor!"  says  the  girl  with  a 
soft,  low  laugh.  '*  And  what  may  our  distinguished  rela- 
tive have  to  say  for  himself  in  these  four  closely  written 
pages?  Judging  -by  your  face" — saucily — "nothing 
pleasant.     I  quite  thought  it  was  a  bill." 

"  'Tis  worse!"  says  the  squire,  solemnly.  In  his  heat  he 
leans  toward  her  from  his  seat  at  the  foot  of  the  table,  and 
as  the  latter  is  small,  their  faces  nearly  meet.  "  He's  com- 
ing here  to  stay  some  days!"  he  whispers  with  fine  im- 
pressiveness. 

*'What!  To  stay  some — oh,  nonsense!  Give  me  the  let- 
ter," says  Miss  Delaney,  rising  with  much  characteristic 

OIG 


t  IHE    DUCHE6&. 

force  from  her  seat;  bnt  her  father  waves  her  back,  i»< 

ploringly. 

*' Now,  can't  yon  be.  patient,  my  dear?  Can't  you, 
BOW?  You  know  if  you  flurry  me.  Duchess,  I'll  never  b8 
able  to  explain.  AVait  till  I  read  it  to  yon.  "Where  is  it 
now?"  glancing  again  at  the  letter  he  holds,  with  its  big 
crimson  crest  and  its  bold,  handsome  handwriting. 
*'  H'm!  hah!  *  To  see  you  after  all  these  years.'  '  Make 
acquaintance  with  you  and  my  cousin.*  Hah  I  '  Am  on 
my  way  here.*  Norah,"  says  the  squire,  laying  down  the 
letter  and  regarding  his  daughter  with  a  tragic  air,  "  that 
means  that  he'll  be  here  in  about  two  hoursi" 

"  Two  hours?  Oh,  dad,  no!"  says  the  Duchess,  lifting 
her  lovely  face  and  gazing  at  her  father  with  undisguised 
dismay.  All  the  admirable  spirit  that  had  distinguished 
her  a  moment  since  is  gone,  and  abject  fear  has  taken  its 
place. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  that's  jnst  how  I  feel**  says  Mr.  De- 
laney  with  open  sympathy.  "  I  keep  on  saying  it,  but 
here  I'm  convinced  he's  coming  all  the  same,"  with  a 
rather  depressed  glance  round  the  large,  poorly  furnished, 
comfortless  room.  *'  He  says  he's  on  his  way,  and  I've  no 
doubt  he'll  finish  his  journey.  And  why  shouldn't  he, 
too?'*  with  quite  a  startling  change  of  front  and  a  re- 
proachful glance  at  his  daughter.  ''Who  should  be  wel- 
come here,  I'd  like  to  know,  if  it  wasn't  our  own  kith  and 
kin?  Tut!  I'm  astonished  at  you  now,  Duchess,  to  be  so 
inhospitable — and  your  own  first  cousin,  too,  my  dear." 

'^  Is  he  very  rich,  dad?"  asks  the  Duchess,  in  a  rather 
forlorn  tone,  though  she  has  shown  no  surprise  at  all  at 


THE    DUCHESS.  7 

the  sharp  alteration  of  his  sentiments.      Perhaps  she  ia 

used  to  it. 

"As  Croesus!"  with  all  the  noble  air  of  one  determined 
to  face  the  worst  whatever  the  consequences.  "  My  poor 
brother.  The  Delauey  (a  proud  title,  Norah,  as  good  as 
any  juke's) — well,  never  mind;  but  my  poor  brother  (as 
fine  a  man,  my  dear,  as  ever  stepped  in  shoe  leather, 
though  I  dare  say  it  isn't  modest  of  me  to  say  so,  consider- 
ing, ahem!  we  were  considered  much  alike) — ^however,  as 
I  was  saying — " 

'*  I  wonder  you  never  told  me  all  this  before." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  he  died  a  great  many  years  ago,  more 
than  you  can  remember,  and  'tis  hard  to  talk  to  the  young 
of  those  who  are  past  and  gone;  but  before  be  died  he 
married  an  English  girl  with  a  pot  of  money  and  jewels 
without  number."  (Jools  I'm  afraid  the  dear  old  squire 
called  those  precious  gems.)  "  Poor  Terence,  your  uncle, 
had  a  very  handsome  property  of  his  own,  and  he  hadn't 
been  married  to  madame  three  years  when  she  fell  in  for 
two  large  fortunes,  left  her  by  some  kinsfolk  in  her  own 
country  over  the  water.  And  all  this  has  come  already,  or 
at  least  will  come,  to  Denis." 

"  It  will  be  dreadful!"  says  the  girl^  looking  round  the 
room  in  her  turn;  her  voice  is  low  and  melancholy.  "  Is 
he  young?"  she  asks  presently. 

"  About  twenty-seven,  I  should  say,  though  Fm  not 
much  at  a  guess.  He  was  very  young  indeed  when  my 
poor  brother  died;  quite  a  little  chap  in  breeches. 
Though,  indeed,  for  the  matter  of  that,"  says  the  squire, 
thoughtfully,  bent  as  it  were  on  wrestling  with  the  truth 


8  THE    DUCHESS. 

and  forcing  it  to  the  front  at  all  hazards,  *'  he  was  out  of 
them  when  that  unhappy  event  happened,  as  Terence  died 
at  midnight,  so  the  child  must  have  been  in  bed." 

*'  What  is  his  mother  like?"  asks  the  Duchess,  still  mel- 
ancholy. 

"  Very  handsome  she  was  then  and  very  charming. 
Bong  tong,  you  know,  and  all  that,  and  a  good  soul,  too/' 
says  the  squire,  relapsing  into  a  less  fashionable  manner. 
"  For  she  nearly  broke  her  heart  when  Terence  died.  She 
took  the  boy  away  then.  Carried  him  off  to  England  and 
had  him  educated  there,  and  in  fact  has  kept  him  there 
ever  since,  except  on  such  occasions  as  he  has  gone 
abroad." 

"  flas  he  gone  much?"  asks  Norah,  timidly — already 
she  is  desperately  afraid  of  this  half-English  cousin. 

"  I  believe  so.  I  hear  he  has  seen  a  great  deal  of  the 
world  in  his  time.  The  last  we  heard  of  him  he  was  in 
Pekin.     You  remember  that  now,  don't  you,  Norah?" 

"  1  don't.  I  don't  believe  I  ever  gave  him  a  thought," 
says  Norah,  petulantly.  "  But  1  expect  I'll  have  to  give 
him  several  now,"  with  a  little  pout.  "  Dad,"  anxiously, 
"  how  long  do  you  think  he  will  stay?" 

"  Let's  see,"  says  the  squire.  Once  again  he  adjusts  his 
spectacles  upon  his  rather  pronounced  nose  and  takes  up 
the  bomb-shell  that  politeness  calls  a  letter.  "  Ahl  here  it 
is:  '  I  hope  to  stay  a  day  or  two.*  Now,  Duchess,  don't 
you  be  taken  in  by  that,"  says  the  squire,  looking  at  her 
knowingly  over  the  sheet  he  holds.  "  He'll  stay  a  week  to 
a  moral!" 

"  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  at  anything  he'd  do,"  dis- 


THE    DUCHESS.  9 

gustedly.  **  It's  as  good  to  say  a  month  when  you're 
about  it.  But  no!"  with  a  sudden  pang  of  remembrance, 
"  a  day  in  our  menage  will,  1  dare  say,  more  than  suffice 
for  him. " 

"  Nonsense,  now,  Norah;  your  cousin  isn't  that  sort,  I 
should  hope,"  says  the  squire.  "But,  indeed,  I  agree 
with  you;  I'm  afraid  he'll  find  it — er — a  bit  rough." 

"  He'll  hate  it,"  says  Norah. 

"  I  wouldn't  care  if  I  was  sure  of  the  dinner,"  says  the 
squire,  nervously.  "  But  what  the  jeuce  will  we  do  if  that 
butcher  of  ours  doesn't  give  us  meat  fit  to  eat?  His  mut- 
ton, 1  allow  you,  is  all  very  well,  but  his  beef,"  says  the 
squire,  with  profound  dejection,  "  his  beef  is  the  very — " 

*'  Quite  so;  I  entirely  agree  with  you,"  says  Norah,  with 
admirable  promptitude.  "  But  never  mind,"  conscious 
pride  in  her  tone.  "  I  have  fowls  in  the  yard  as  fat  as  fat 
can  be,  and  as  to  the  beef,  I  think  I'll  go  to  Miciiey  myself 
and  tell  him  it's  a  matter  of  life  and  death,  and  that  he 
must  give  it  iis  good  for  once  in  his  life." 

"  Do!"  with  enthusiastic  belief  in  her  plan.  "  There's 
nothing  like  a  woman's  tongue  for  bringing  a  man  to  rea- 
son, and  as  for  yours,  I  know  by  experience  that  you 
could — " 

"  Oh!  daddy,  now!    Come!    Am  1  such  a  shrew?" 

"  Coax  the  birds  off  the  bushes,  my  dear,  I  was  going 
to  say.     Ha!  ha!  I  had  you  there,"  laughs  the  squire. 

"  Turncoat,"'  says  she,  shrugging  her  pretty  shoulders 
at  him.  "  Well,  don't  get  into  mischief  whilst  I'm  away, 
for  I'm  off  to  the  village  this  instant  to  secure  a  loin  of 
mutton  and  warn  him  about  the  beef. " 


10  THE    DUCHES8. 

**  I  say,  Norah.  I  say.  Duchess,  darling,  don't  go  ofl 
at  a  tangent  like  that,"  says  the  squire,  making  an  in- 
effectual grab  at  her  gown  as  she  passes  him  on  her  way  to 
the  door.  "I've  a  great  deal  to  say  to  you  yet.  Thi^ 
young  man  will  be  expecting  tilings  grander,  no  doubt, 
than  we  can  have  them.  We  can't  help  that,  of  course; 
but  I'd — I'd  like  him  to  see  us  as  well  as  we  can  be,  eh?" 
He  colors  a  little  as  he  says  this  and  glances  deprecatingly 
at  his  daughter.  "  Flowers,  now,"  diffidently,  "  flowers 
on  a  dinner-table  give  it  quite  a  little  air,  eh?  And 
there's  some  of  the  old  silver  locked  up,  isn't  there,  in  the 
oak  chest?  And  if  you  have  a  white  gown,  sweetheart, 
just  put  it  on  you  for  dinner,  won't  you,  now?  I  wouldn't 
have  him  think  we  didn't  know  about  things,  even  though 
we  can't  have  them,  eh?" 

"Just  so!"  says  Norah,  taking  fire  at  once  from  the 
brilliant  scene  he  has  just  conjured  up.  "  I'm  quite 
clever  at  arranging  flowers,  and  I'll  give  the  old  silver  a 
rub  myself  this  afternoon  while  you  take  him  out  for  a 
walk.  Make  it  a  long  one,  daddy.  And — you  think  a  loin 
of  mutton  best — don't  you?  A  leg  sits  up  so  high,  and 
there's  so  much  of  it,  and  of  course,"  with  a  sigh,  "  he's 
dainty;  and — and  do  you  think — but  no,"  despondently, 
"  I — I  don't  think  I  am  much  of  a  hand  at  soup." 

"  You  are  excellent,  my  dear,  excellent,"  protests  her 
father  (may  Heaven  forgive  liim).  "  But  I  don't  think 
we'll  mind  the  soup.  Just  a  loin  and  a  pudding.  Tiiat 
was  a  glorious  pudding  you  gave  us  last  Sunday." 

"  Custard?  Very  good.  And  I  can  make  him  a  jam 
roll  for  the  next  day— and  for  the  day  after  that— oh,  but 


THE    DUCHESS.  11 

I  hope  he  will  go  away  the  day  after  that.  That  is,  of 
course/'  mindful  of  her  hospitality,  "if  he  wants  to. 
He's  "  (hopefully)  "  sure  to  want  to." 

'*I  trust,"  says  the  squire,  anxiously,  "that  Bridget 
won't  be  drunk." 

"  Certainly  that  habit  of  hers  is  a  great  drawback.  At 
all  events —if  she  does  have  one  of  her— attacks,  1  hope  it 
won't  be  a  noisy  one.  Last  time— you  remember,  dad?— 
she  was  so  abusive  that  Mary  went  into  hysterics  on  the 
kitchen  stairs,  and  said  she  couldn't  attend  the  table." 

"Yes,  yes.  Mary's  a  very  poor  creature,"  says  the 
squire,  with  the  utmost  gentleness.  His  manner  is  ab- 
stracted; it  is  plain  his  fertile  brain  is  running  on  some 
other  matter  far  remote  from  Mary.  ''Now  where  the 
dickens  are  they,  I  wonder?"  he  says  at  last. 

**  What,  dear?"  asks  the  Duchess,  at  once  interested. 

"  The  waistcoat  I  can  lay  my  hand  on  at  once,  becanse 
I  wore  it  the  last  time  Lord  Kilgarriff  called,  not  being 
able  just  then  to  find  my  Sunday  one,  and  I  know  the  coat 
Is  hanging  up  behind  my  door;  but  where  on  earth  are  the 
trousers?" 

"  Is  it  your  evening  suit  you  are  thinking  of?  Do  yon 
mean  to  say  you  are  going  to  dress  for  dinner  every  day?" 
She  is  so  overcome  by  the  magnitude  of  this  thought  that 
she  sinks  into  the  nearest  chair. 

•*0f  course,"  says  the  squire,  with  great  dignity. 
"D'ye  think  I'd  let  him  believe  we  weren't  up  to  so 
much?    Tut,  Norab,  you  haven't  a  spark  of  gening." 

"  You'll  be  miseiable,"  declares  she,  eying  him  witii 
deep  commiseration;  "  they  are  so  dreadfully  tight** 


1%  fHB    DU0HBS8. 

*•  Pride  feela  no  pain/ '  conrageonsly.  •*  And  if  I  Boflbi 
It  will  be  ill  a  good  cause.  And  mind  you.  Duchess,  din- 
ner not  a  minute  before  seven.'* 

**  Seven  I  "Why,  Bridget  will  be  hopeless  by  that  time, 
and  Mary  will  think  it  is  supper- ** 

*'  It  can't  be  helped,**  says  the  squire,  drawing  himself 
np  with  quite  a  superb  air.  "  It  is  absolutely  necessary 
that  we  should  hold  up  our  heads  now,  and  let  him  see 
that  wo,  too,  are  conversant  with  the  niceties  of  fashion- 
able life!" 

This  last  is  too  much  for  the  Duchess.  Crushed  by  it, 
she  walks  with  a  depressed  air  to  the  door  and  beats  a 
hasty  retreat 


OHAI»TER  II. 

•'  A  proper  man  as  one  shotild  see  in  a  summer's  day." 

Her  interview  with  the  butcher  must  have  been  stormy 
and  prolonged,  because  she  is  late  for  the  important  arrival 
of  the  head  of  all  the  Delaneys.  That  young  man,  en- 
tirely ignorant  of  the  sensation  his  coming  has  provoked, 
drives  up  to  the  door  about  half  past  eleven  to  bo  wel- 
comed by  the  squire  solus. 

The  squire!  who  had  been  fussing  and  fuming  all  the 
morning  and  leading  the  hysterical  Mary  a  horrible  life; 
insisting  on  the  threadbare  carpets  being  brushed  over  and 
over  again,  marchiiig  in  upon  them  with  muddy  boots  to 
enforce  this  command,  and  deaf  to  Mary's  whimper  that 
much  more  brushing  will  leave  nothing  but  the  jQoor  be- 
neath.    It  is  indeed  a  reprieve  to  the  long-suffering  maid 


THE    DUCHESa.  13 

▼lien  wheels  are  heard  crunching  upon  the  gravel  outside, 
and  the  squire,  forgetful  now  of  all  but  the  approaching 
guest,  rushes  forth  to  greet  him. 

The  guest  seems  very  willing  to  be  greeted.  He  springs 
off  the  outside  car  and  comes  quickly  up  to  this  unknown 
uncle,  a  pleasant  smile  upon  his  face.  As  for  the  squire, 
after  the  first  glance  all  is  forgotten — the  meagerness  of 
his  household,  the  fear  of  discomfort  for  the  stranger — 
there  is  only  left  the  desire  to  make  heartily  at  home  thia 
young  man  who  is  so  like  the  dead  brother  and  who  is  so 
tall,  so  aristocratic  in  bearing,  so-  well  set  up  and  so — 
which  always  comes  first  to  an  Irish  eye — handsome. 

**  My  dear  boy,  I'm  delighted  to  see  you.  *Tis  new  life 
to  me.  Well,  well,  but  you*re  like  your  poor  father.  My 
dear  fellow,  'tis  very  good  of  you  to  think  of  coming  to  see 
an  old  man  like  me.  '^ 

His  own  handsome  old  head  is  well  thrown  up,  and  he 
tfmiles  an  almost  tender  welcome  on  his  nephew,  who, 
though  a  good  six  feet,  is  yet  half  an  inch  below  him  in 
height. 

*•  Come  in,  come  in,"  says  he;  "  and  as  for  you,  Larry 
Finn,'*  addressing  the  driver  of  the  outsider,  who  is  well 
known  to  him,  as  indeed  is  every  soul  in  the  county,  "  go 
round  to  the  kitchen  and  wait  for  your  dinner.  My  dear 
Denis,"  leading  the  way  up  the  stone  steps  and  into  the 
large,  bare,  comfortless  apartment  called  by  courtesy  the 
drawing-room  at  Ballyhinch,  "  what  years  have  rolled  by 
since  last  I  saw  you!  A  little  fellow  yon  were  then,  bm 
not  BO  nnlike  either.  And  how  is  madame?  How's  yonr 
wotfcerr* 


14  THE    DU0HE8S. 

**  Qaite  well,  thank  yon.  She  sent  the  very  kindest  re* 
membrances  to  you  aud  my  cousin,  and  desired  me  to  say  she 
hopes,  now  we  have  agreed  to  stay  in  Ireland  for  some  time, 
that  we  shall  uo  longer  continue  strangers  to  each  other.  ** 

**  She  was  always  charming,"  says  the  squire,  with  a 
rather  old-fashioned  but  very  admirable  air.  **And 
you?"  laying  his  hands  upon  the  younger  man's  shoulders 
and  surveying  him  with  affectionate  scrutiny.  *'  How  old 
are  yoa  now,  eh?  I  should  know,  I  suppose,  but,  faith, 
things  slip  me.     Twenty-seven,  ehf** 

**  Not  so  bad  a  guess,  and  a  flattering  one  into  the  bar- 
gain, as  I  happen  to  be  twenty-eight.  At  that  age  one 
begins  to  wish  a  year  off  rather  than  a  year  on.*' 

**  TutI  What's  twenty-eight?  When  I  was  that  age  I 
called  myself  a  boy — and  the  broth  of  a  boy,  too,"  says 
the  squire,  with  his  jolly  laugh,  than  which  there  was 
nothing  more  musical  in  the  next  four  parishes.  "  But 
you  must  be  thoroughly  done,  my  dear  boy,  and  hungry, 
too,  of  course.  If  " — looking  rather  helplessly  round  him 
— '*  if  one  only  knew  where  the  Duchess — er — Noddlekins 
— that  is — Korah,  your  cousin,  I  mean,"  floundering  hope- 
lessly over  the  many  loving  sobriquets  belonging  to  his 
darling,  "  was,  we  might — " 

*'  Nothing  for  me,"  says  Denis,  quickly.  **  Nothing  at 
all,  thank  yon.  I  slept  in  Cork  and  breakfasted  there 
about  an  hour  ago,  as  it  seems  to  me.  It  is  really  nothing 
of  a  journey  here  from  there.  I  feel  as  fresh  as  a  daisy 
and  as  fit  as  a  fiddle.  A  walk  to  stretch  my  legs  I  should 
like  after  the  train  work — that  is,  if  you  are  thinking  of 
going  out." 


THE    DUCHESS.  15 

*'  Well,  I  generally  do  take  a  look  round  me  about  thie 
hour  to  see  that  the  men  are  keeping  up  to  their  work/' 
says  the  squire,  hazily.  "  Desperately  lazy  fellows  most  of 
them,  and  if  you  would  really  like  to  join  me — but  posi- 
tively you  must  have  something  first;  a  brandy  and  soda, 
now — " 

''  No,  thank  you,'' says  Denis,  laughing  and  tucking  hi* 
arm  into  his  uncle's  and  leading  him  toward  the  open  win- 
dow, through  which  it  is  but  a  simple  thing  to  drop  on  to 
the  grass  below.  At  this  moment  it  is  borne  in  upon  him 
that  it  is  a  possible  thing  to  feel  very  intimate  with  the 
squire  in  the  space  of  five  minutes  or  so. 

Outside  there  is  a  blaze  of  yellow  sunshine,  and  the  wild 
sweet  singing  of  innumerable  birds.  A  meadow  with  long 
grass,  still  standing — because  of  the  heavy  rains  that  had 
deluged  the  earth  in  the  early  summer — although  it  is  now 
mid- July,  is  making  gentle  obeisance  to  the  soft  wind  that 
rushes  over  it. 

The  short  grass  on  which  they  are  walking  widens  pres- 
ently into  a  garden  rather  lower  down,  protected  on  one 
side  by  a  high  beech  hedge,  Not  an  every-day  garden, 
trim  and  ribbon-bordered,  but  a  gay,  delicious  mass  of  all 
flowers,  old  and  new,  jumbled  up  together  in  a  delicate 
confusion — one  harmonious  whole — thus  forming  "  a  very 
wilderness  of  sweets." 

"  What  an  exquisite  bit!"  says  Denis,  standing  still  and 
honestly  admiring.  "You  have  a  gardener  with  a  fint 
sense  of  taste." 

The  squire  laughs  aloud. 

'*  Say  that  to  the  Duchess,"  cries  he,  **  and  you'll  make 


16  THE   DUCHESS. 

her  your  friend  for  life.  Gardener  there  is  none;  all  you 
see  there  is  her  own  work.  No  hand  but  hers  sows  or 
reaps  in  that  little  garden.  I  tell  her  the  flowers  must 
know  and  love  her  or  they  would  not  bloom  so;  that  she 
must  breathe  some  cunning  spell  upon  them  to  make  them 
flourish  as  they  do.  *' 

"  What!     Does  she  do  it  all  herself?" 

**  Every  scrap/'  says  the  squire,  with  loving  pride. 

*'  A  muscular  young  woman  with  a  vengeance,"  thinks 
Delaney,  and  pictures  to  himself  with  a  sliudder  the  tall, 
large-boned  girl  with  (in  all  probability)  fiery  locks  with 
whom  he  will  have  to  claim  cousinship  presently.  With 
many  fears,  too,  he  calls  to  mind  the  errand  on  which  he 
has  been  sent  by  his  mother,  to  caj)ture  and  bring  back  to 
her  for  a  long  visit  this  young  Amazon.  He  thinks  of  his 
mother's  patient  despair  over  the  entertainment  of  such  a 
guest,  and  of  Katherine's  cultured  stare  and  educated  lift- 
ing of  the  brows. 

"  She  has  talent,''  he  says,  politely  stifling  a  sigh. 

Striking  across  the  fields  and  getting  beyond  the  trees,  a 
larger  view  is  given  to  the  eyes.  The  stretching  jjlains, 
now  ripening  to  their  death;  the  yellowing  corn,  the  wav- 
ing barley  falling  wave  on  wave,  the  cloud-flecked  sky,  and 
beyond  all  the  silent,  glittering  ocean,  on  which  the  sun's 
hottest  rays  are  falling,  all  blend  together  to  form  a  scene 
the  beauty  of  which  enters  into  the  very  soul  of  the  new% 
comer. 

He  is  indeed  somewhat  lost  in  contemplation  of  it  when 
the  wild  barking  of  a  whole  kennel,  as  it  seems  to  him, 
breaks  in  upon  his  tranquil  reverie.     Barkings  they  are  of 


THE    DUCHESS.  17 

the  most  agonized  description,  suggestive  of  a  desire  for 
Buicide  on  the  parts  of  the  performers. 

"  By  Jove!  the  dogs.  I've  forgotten  them  and  they\e 
found  out  I've  started,"  says  the  squire,  conscience- 
stricken.  Then  a  smile  irradiates  his  jovial  countenance. 
"Aren't  they  clever!"  says  he,  with  a  sort  of  possessive 
admiration.  "  The  deuce  wouldn't  be  up  to  them!  My 
dear  boy,  if  you'll  go  on  I'll  go  back,  and  I'll  catch  you 
up  in  no  time.    But  perhaps  they'll  be  reasonable.    ^Sh!" 

Here  the  howlings  break  forth  again  with  renewed  vigor, 
and  the  squire  with  a  remorseful  face  gives  in. 

*'  You  see!  I  must  go  back  for  them — the  creatures!" 
he  says,  distractedly.  '*  And  if  just  you'll  walk  straight 
up  on  that  hill  before  you  you'll  find  as  fine  a  view  as  ever 
you  saw  in  your  life,  and  I'll  be  after  you  before  you  can 
say  Jack  Robinson. " 

Away  he  sails,  coat-tails  flying  behind  him,  as  light  and 
active  as  any  school-boy  in  spite  of  his  fifty  years;  and 
Denis,  with  an  amused  smile,  continues  his  walk  alone. 

lie  is  half-way  up  the  hill  pointed  out  to  him,  gazing 
idly  from  side  to  side  at  the  clumps  of  golden  furze  that 
deck  the  hill  in  isolated  patches  here  and  there,  when 
something  on  top  of  a  high  stone  wall  that  stands  on  his 
left  catches. and  keeps  his  eye. 

It  is  a  little  slender  brown  ha&dl 


TU.K    DLUlliiSB, 


CHAPTER  in. 
"  Is  she  not  passing  fair?" 

He  has  scarcely  time  to  wonder  at  that  before  a  face  fol- 
lows it  I  Such  a  face!  And  then  there  is  a  swift  pressure- 
of  the  hands  on  the  stone  wall,  and  with  a  movement  full 
of  youth  and  strength  and  grace  a  slight  figure  sj^rings  into 
the  sunlight  and  runs  eagerly  up  and  down  the  top  of  the 
wall,  as  if  in  nervous  haste  and  anxious  to  find  some  easy 
spot  from  which  to  jump  to  Mother  Earth  beneath. 

A  slender  childish  figure,  gowned  in  a  simple  cotton 
frock  that  beyond  all  question  has  seen  the  wash-tub  many 
a  time  and  oft;  but  yet  a  gown  that  is  fresh  and  crisp,  and 
can  not,  in  spite  of  the  eccentricities  of  the  village  dress- 
maker, altogether  hide  the  grace  of  the  form  it  covers. 
Just  as  little  can  the  rough  country-made  shoes  conceal  the 
beauty  of  the  small,  highly  arched,  patrician  feet  they 
hold. 

To  Delaney  this  latter  knowledge  comes  further  on. 
Just  now  he  is  blind  to  all  save  her  face. 

Were  ever  eyes  so  clear,  so  gray,  so  deep?  With  what  a 
delicate  touch  the  jsurple  shadows  (those  alluring  supple- 
ments to  all  true  Irish  eyes)  lie  beneath  them!  How  long 
the  curling  lashes  grow!  The  rippling  chestnut  hair, 
showing  beneath  the  huge  poke  bonnet,  hardly  hides  the 
wide,  low,  capable  brow,  or  the  pretty  cheeks  flushed  like 
the  wild  rose.  But  above  and  beyond  all,  the  exquisite 
sweetness  of  her  mouth  reigns  queen;  so  riante,  tender, 


THE    DUCHESS.  VJ 

loving,  all  iu  one;  so  arch,  too,  and  so  soft,  and  red  as 
roses  in  fair  June. 

All  this  picture  is  caught,  as  it  were,  in  a  breath ;  the 
breathing  time  it  has  taken  her  to  decide  on  where  she 
shall  jump.  Now  she  bends  forward  at  a  rather  impossi- 
ble place,  it  seems  to  Denis,  who  has  had  very  little  to  do 
with  any  except  town-bred  girls,  and  pauses  as  if  about  to 
spring. 

A  sharp  exclamation  breaks  from  him, 

"  Don't  attempt  it!     It  is  far  higher  than  it  looks!'* 

She  starts  violently.  His  voice,  coming  suddenly  from 
nowhere,  as  it  seems  to  her,  has  nearly  the  effect  of  mak- 
ing her  lose  her  balance.  Turning  her  bead  quickly  in  his 
direction  she  meets  his  eyes,  and  stares  at  him  for  a  full 
minute  as  if  fascinated.  Who  is  he?  and  what  has 
brought  him  here?  For  the  time  she  has  forgotten  the 
expected  cousin,  but  even  as  she  looks  at  him  she  remem- 
bers. 

Slowly,  very  slowly,  a  rich  crimson  blush  rises  and  dyes 
her  cheeks.  Is  this  tall,  handsome,  kindly  young  man  the 
cousin  she  has  so  dreaded?  Impulsively  she  bends  toward 
him,  a  smile  quivering  on  her  lovely  lips. 

"  You  are  Denis,"  she  says,  in  a  voice  very  clear,  very 
low,  perhaps  a  little  plaintive;  at  all  events,  whatever  it  is, 
it  is  a  voice  that  suits  her. 

"  A  creditable  inspiration,*'  laughing  and  looking  up  at 
her  to  where  she  stands  on  her  very  superior  ground.  He 
has  lifted  his  hat,  and  it  occurs  to  her  even  at  this  im- 
mature stage  that  he  is,  if  possible,  better  to  look  at  with- 
out than  with  it. 


20  THE    DUCHESS. 

**  I  knew  it/*  says  she,  shyl}',  if  triumphantly,  **  I  aaw 
it  at  once.  You — ^}'ou  are  like  dad — only  so  very  differ- 
ent.'' 

This  lucid  description  she  delivers  with  a  charming 
smile. 

*'  You  didn^t  know  me,  though,"  she  goes  on,  nodding 
her  head  reproachfully  at  him.     "  I  am — " 

"Her  Grace  of  Ballyhinch!"  interposes  he.  "You 
wronged  me!  Am  I  so  lacking  in  intelligence  that  I  could 
not  see  that  at  a  glance?'' 

"But  how — how?*'  eagerly.  "Of  course  there  are 
many  reasons  why  I  should  guess  at  you  successfully.  The 
fact  that  you  were  expected;  that  there  isn't  a  young  man 
in  the  county  except  the  doctor's  apprentice  and  the 
organist;  and  your  likeness  to  dad.  But  how  did  you 
know  me?" 

"  Am  I  a  mere  mole,  then,  that  I  should  be  blind  to  the 
natural  diguity  that  distinguishes  you?  Are  duchesses  so 
numerous  that  one  need^ — " 

"  Oh,  nonsense!"  interrupts  she,  with  a  little  indignant 
side  glance.     "  If  you  won't  tell — " 

"  Well,  I  expect  I  knew  you  because  you  first  knew 
me,"  confesses  he,  smiling. 

"Ah!  Was  that  it?  I'm  sorry  now  I  spoke,* '  says  she, 
mischievously,  her  lovely  eyes  full  of  an  innocent  coquetrj'. 
"  I  could  have  led  you  such  a  dance!"  She  seems  to  pine 
over  this  lost  opportunity. 

**  You  couldn't  have  led  it  up  there,"  says  he.  "  There 
isn't  room." 

"That  reminds  me  I''  growing  earnest  again.      *' Dad 


THE    DUCHESS,  21 

must  be  wondering  where  I  am.     There,  stand  out  of  my 
way  until  I  jump." 

"  Pray  don't  try  to  take  that  wall/'  entreats  he,  anx- 
iously. "  Let  me  help  you.  Come — "  going  nearer  and 
resting  one  foot  on  a  projecting  stone  that  lifts  him  closer 
to  her.  "  Trust  yourself  to  me  and  I  will  take  you 
down. " 

"  Am  I  china  that  I  should  break?''  making  him  a  lit- 
tle mouL  "  Well,  if  you  will/'  shrugging  her  shoulders. 
"  Let  me  place  my  hands  upon  your  arms,  so — and  that 
will  perhaps  save  me  from  a  sudden  and  terrible  death. 
Now,  are  you  ready?" 

The  charming  eyes  are  smiling  with  a  mocking  gayety 
into  his  without  the  smallest  touch  of  embarrassment, 
although  the  two  faces  are  very  close  together;  and  then 
there  is  the  lightest  pressure  possible  on  his  arms,  and  the 
next  moment  she  is  beside  him  on  the  soft  turf. 

' '  No  bones  broken  after  all, "  she  says,  saucily  glancing 
at  him  from  under  the  bonnet.  Then  all  at  once,  as 
though  suddenly  recollecting  something,  she  grows  grave 
and  extends  him  her  hand. 

"  Welcome!"  she  says,  sweetly;  and  again,  very  im- 
pressively, "  Do  you  know  that  I  am  very,  very  glad  you 
have  come?" 

"Thank  you,"  pleasantly,  though  indeed  he  is  a  little 

surprised  at  her  earnestness.     "  That  is  the  very  kindest 

thing  you  could  say  to  me.     I  have  been  so  afraid  I  should 

bore  you,  or — " 

"  Oh,  no!" 

'*  Do  you  mean,"  says  he,  still  puzzled  by  her  manner, 


SS  THE    DUCHESS. 

which  has  something  behind  it,  "  that  you,  yourself,  art 
glad  of  my  coming?*' 

"  More  than  I  can  say/'  promptly,  and  with  quite  a 
serious  smile  at  him. 

This  exceeding  frankness  almost  overpowers  him.  Does 
«he  mean  it:  Is  she  really  so  enraptured  as  her  words 
imply  at  having  him  here?  This  charming,  pretty,  fasci- 
nating child,  who — 

"  For  dad's  sake,"  says  she,  softly,  knocking  all  his  fine 
sentiment  to  pieces  in  an  instant.  "  He  has  always  been 
so  longing  to  see  again  some  of  his  own  people,  and  you 
especially,  the  only  son  of  his  only  brother."  She  is  silent 
awhile,  and  then  looking  at  him  intently,  '*  What  brought 
you?"  she  asks,  gently. 

"  A  longing  to  see  him,  I  suppose,"  returns  he,  smiling. 
*'  I  should  have  come  before,  but,  as  you  doubtless  know, 
ever  since  my  father's  death  my  mother  and  I  have  lived 
in  England,  and  of  later  years  I  have  traveled  a  good  deal. 
Three  months  ago,  however,  hearing  that  affairs  in  Ireland 
were  going  with  a  steady  briskness  to  the  bad,  I  threw  up 
my  intention  of  going  to  the  East  again  and  came  over 
here  instead/' 

**  Troubles  with  your  tenants?" 

*'  Yes.  Or  rather  with  my  agents.  Same  thing.  Ever 
since  that  terrible  tragedy — when  poor  Meredith  was  shot 
— the  last  agent  but  two,  you  remember — I  have  had  no 
peace. " 

"  I  remember  it  as  though  it  were  but  yesterday.  It 
was  an  awful  murder.  He  resisted  so  long — so  bravely — 
Wid  " — she  turns  white — "  thev  battered   in   his — oh,  it 


THE    DUCHESS.  26 

was  horrible!    And  for  you/*  glancing  at  him,  "  worse 
than  for  any  one.'' 

"  I  sha'n't  forget  it  to  them,  you  may  be  sure,"  says 
he,  betweeu  his  teeth.  "  Weil,  the  man  after  him — 
Strong — either  lost  his  nerve  or  could  not  manage  the  peo- 
ple, and  after  a  month  or  two  resigned  the  post.  I  don't 
blame  him  really.  It  must  be  nasty  waiting  to  be  mur- 
dered like  that.  The  last  man,  Monroe,  gave  in,  tooj  so, 
as  I  saw  no  prospect  of  keeping  an  agent  longer  than  six 
weeks  at  a  stretch,  I  thought  I'd  take  the  post  myself — 
with  an  assistant,  of  course — and  come  over  and  try  what 
I  could  dOo " 

"Kerry  is  such  a  shocking  place,*' says  the  Duchess, 
with  a  sigh  for  that  degenerate  spot. 

"  If  it  could  get  a  good  ducking  in  the  sea  and  have  its 
inhabitants  well  washed  off  the  face  of  it,  I  dare  say  it 
would  do  it  good,"  replies  he,  lightly.  "In  the  mean- 
time, as  I  said  before,  I'll  see  what  I  can  do  with  my  par- 
ticular bit  of  it.  The  mother  was  rather  against  giving  up 
her  town  house  and  coming  here  in  the  height  of  the  sea- 
son, but  I  persuaded  her;  got  the  Castle  put  into  livable 
order,  and  now  that  she  has  been  here  a  month  she  seems 
to  have  quite  taken  to  it.  Of  course  the  moment  I  found 
a  few  days  I  could  call  my  own  both  she  and  I  thought  of 
you  and  my  uncle." 

"It  was  kind  of  you,*'  says  she,  softly.  She  has  been 
regarding  him  nervously  for  the  past  five  minutes,  even 
whilst  he  has  been  speaking  to  her.  Truly  he  is  very  far 
apart  from  all  the  other  young  men  of  her  acquaintance. 
Even  Kilgarriff,  who  is  quite  a  traveled  person  for  his 


24  THE    DUCHES8. 

years,  and  should  be  well  up  in  the  little  delicate  touchet 
that  distinguish  the  well-bred  society  man  from  the  well- 
bred  country  gentleman,  does  not  seem  to  her  to  come 
quite  up  to  the  mark  of  this  new-fouud  cousin. 

Something  in  his  voice,  in  the  unconscious  charm  of  his 
manner,  pleases  while  it  disturbs  her.  There  is  an  air 
about  him  as  of  one  accustomed  always  to  the  soft  jjlaces  of 
the  earth,  and  how  will  he  take  Ballyhinch  and  all  its 
shortcomings?     Serious  reflection! 

Her  mind  flies  on  to  the  dinner  and  back  again  to  her 
just  consummated  visit  to  the  butcher.  There  seems  to 
her  now  something  sinister  in  the  fact  that  he  had  so  per- 
sistently, so  insidiously  i3ut  aside  in  the  bland  Irish  way 
that  belongs  to  him  her  request  to  see  the  loin  she  had 
ordered  before  leaving.  Good  heavens!  can  it  be  possible 
that  that  loin  is  still  alive,  that  as  yet  its  primal  owner  is 
free  of  knife  or  thrust? 

She  grows  cold  with  horror  as  this  fear  presents  itself, 
and  she  sees  laid  out  before  her  mind's  eye  the  tough  joint 
that,  should  her  fears  prove  true,  will  adorn  the  dinner- 
table  to-night. 

Her  cousin  is  still  talking,  and  she  is  saying  '*  yes  "  and 
*'  no  *'  in  a  distracted  fashion,  her  mind  running  always 
on  the  treacherous  butcher,  and  the  shame  that  his  treach- 
ery will  bring  her,  when  something  is  said  that  requires  a 
fuller  answer.  It  is  a  mere  nothing,  bw^-  it  serves.  It 
rouses  her. 

"  You  don't  find  it  slow  here,  then?" 

"  Slow?  Stupid  you  mean?  Oh,  no.  There  is  always 
a  great  deal  to  be  done,  aYid  not  so  very  much  time  in 


THK    DUCHESS.  JJA 

which  to  do  it.  There  are  the  usual  things  to  battle  with 
every  day,  and  often  a  startling  surprise  just  to  wake  us 
up  a  little.  To-day,'^  with  a  lovely,  gracious  glance  at 
him,  ''  the  surprise  has  been  a  very  happy  onCo'* 

He  makes  her  no  immediate,  at  least  no  spoken,  answer; 
but  his  eyes  say  as  much  as  need  be  said — perhaps,  indeed, 
more. 

''Now  that  I  see  you,*' she  says,  falteringly,  as  she 
thinks  of  the  mutton,  "  I  know  that  you  are  not  what  I 
thought  you  would  be;  you  are  another  person  altogether, 
as  it  were.'* 

''  Yet  the  moment  your  eyes  fell  on  me  they  knew  me/* 

"  Yes,  that  was  flattering,  I  admit,**  laughing. 

"  Oh,  was  it.^**  says  he,  laughing  too.  "  Thank  you. 
Then  the  ideal  you  had  conjured  up  was  of  a  being  very 
superior  to  me.     Am  I  to  understand  that?** 

"  I*m  not  going  to  explain  oi  refute  anything,**  de- 
clares she,  with  a  charming  touch  of  mutiny  about  her 
mouth.  "  I  think  your  instant  recognition  by  me  should 
suffice  you.  ** 

"  You  gave  a  very  sorry  reason  for  that.  It  showed 
you  held  me — something  better  than  the  organist  and  a 
little  dearer  than  the  doctor's  apprentice.*' 

"  I  don*t  remember  saying  that  you  were  *  dearer  *  than 
anything,**  replies  she,  calmly. 

There  is  a  suspicion  of  coming  battle  in  her  tone.  It 
lends  an  additional  color  to  her  cheek,  an  added  luster  to 
her  eyes.  Providentially  for  Delaney  the  house  at;  this  mo- 
ment comes  into  view,  and  with  it  the  isi^uire,  breathless, 


.-,'«j  THK   j)lciij:s.s. 

but  beaming,  a  dozen  dogs  of  every  age  and  descriptioa 
clustering  at  his  heels. 

"  So  you've  met  her/'  he  cries,  cheerily,  whilst  yet  a 
long  way  off.  '' That's  all  right.  She,"  evidently  indi- 
catftig  the  Duchess,  though  his  indications  are  vague,  "  is 
worth  a  dozen  of  me.  I  hurried  all  I  knew,  but  one  of 
those  fellows  from  the  Kingston  Farm — ^you  know  'em, 
Norah — caught  me,  and  his  tongue,  once  he  gets  an  open- 
ing, is  as  long  as  the  lane  that  has  no  turning. " 


CHAPTER   IV. 

"As  merry  as  the  day  is  long." 

It  is  several  hours  later.  They  have  lunched,  and  art 
now  sitting  out  on  the  bit  of  lawn  that  overlooks  the  gar- 
den, j)lacidly  smoking.  That  is,  the  two  men  are;  JSTorah, 
or  the  Duchess,  is  absent,  on  hospitable  thoughts  intent, 
no  doubt. 

The  squire  has  taken  up  his  parable  again,  and  is  in- 
veighing against  Ireland  and  the  Irish  in  brisk  and  un- 
measured language.  "  Were  there  ever  such  people? 
"Were  there  ever  such  scoundrels?  Were  there  ever  such 
fools?  Led  like  sheep  to  the  slaughter,  without  knowing 
for  why  or  for  wherefore!  Seduced  from  their  allegiance 
by  a  set  of  demagogues  who  used  them  to  till  their  own 
purses,  and  didn't  care  afterward  whether  they  sunk  or 
swam." 

"But  they  are  pretty  quiet  round  here,  aren't  they?*' 
asks  Denis,  presently,  when  he  has  a  second  in  which  to 


THE    DUCHESS.  27 

eilge  in  a  word,  the  squire  being  attacked  with  a  fit  of 
sneezing.  "  We  have  rather  a  high  opinion  of  the  County 
Cork  people  where  I  live.  They  are  all  a  steady-going  lot, 
«h?    Paying  their  rents  and  that?" 

"Rents,  indeed!"  says  the  squire,  with  an  indignant 
snort.  "  Why,  what  do  you  take  'em  for?  Rents,  is  it? 
Faith,  they  would  not  pay  their  priest,  it's  my  belief,  if 
they  weren't  afraid  of  having  to  die  without  him,  which 
would  mean  purgatory  with  a  vengeance  for  quite  an  end- 
less number  of  centuries.  Eh?  Is  that  you.  Noddle- 
kins?"  as  the  Duchess  steps  out  from  the  window  on  to  the 
lawn,  and  standing  behind  his  chair,  leans  on  the  back  of 
it.     **  Norah  will  tell  you  about  them. " 

"  They  are  very  poor,"  says  Norah,  with  a  sigh. 
''Never  mind  that,"  says  the  squire,  hastily,  as  if 
afraid  of  being  softened.  "  What  I'm  telling  your  cousin 
now  is  that  they  have  no  sense  of  honesty.  To  pay  their 
just  dues  is  the  last  thing  that  would  ever  occur  to  them. 
Honesty!  Why,  they've  forgotten  how  to  spell  the  word. 
They've  sponged  it  out  of  their  dictionaries!  Look  at  uie. 
Not  a  penny  have  I  got  this  Gale!  Of  all  the  da — h'm — 
h'm — Norah,  my  soul,  go  and  get  me  my  other  pipe;  this 
won't  draw.     You'll  find  it  in — er — if  you  look  for  it." 

Norah,  with  an  irrepressible  little  glance  at  her  cousin, 
retires  discreetly^ 

"  I  hate  swearing  before  a  girl,  though  it*s  a  great  relief 
at  times,"  sajrs  the  squire,  mildly,  ''  especially  when  one 
gets  on  the  subject  of  one's  tenants.  They  are  such  a 
truculent  lot  and  so  entirely  without  reason;  they  hate  rea- 
son.    Once  let  them  see  that  you  have  the  beet  of  the 


38  THE    DUCHE88. 

argument  and  nothing  wonld  indnce  them  to  lleten  on- 
other  second.  And  then  thoir  grievances!  They'd  fill  the 
pit  of  Tophetl*' 

"  I  suppose  they  have  some/*  eays  the  joimg  man, 
thoughfiully.  The  remembrance  of  a  little  flower-like 
face  and  sweet,  grave  lips  and  a  gentle  voice  that  h&d 
taken  their  part  a  moment,  since  is  still  with  him. 

**  Pish!'*  says  the  squire  wrathfully,  who  in  reality  is  the 
kindliest  soul  alive,  and,  as  a  rule,  shamefully  imposed 
upon  by  every  peasant  in  the  neighborhood.  *'  That's  all 
you  know  about  it.  Such  a  feeble  remark  comes  of  your 
having  Saxon  blood  in  your  veins;  you  don't  understand 
'em.  Like  the  rest  of  your  countrymen,  you  either  run 
us  up  too  high  or  run  us  down  too  low." 

"  Don't  mistake  me  there,"  says  Delaney,  hastily. 
"  I'm  Irish  all  through.  Any  English  blood  I  may  have 
has  become  Irish  long  ago.     I'm  a  Paddy,  heart  and  soul!" 

"  Well  done,  lad!  I  like  to  hear  you,"  says  his  uncle, 
giving  him  a  mighty  slap  on  the  shoulder.  "  In  spite  of 
all  our  faults,  and  I  grant  you  they're  not  few,  and  in  spite 
of  those  rascals  who  are  disgracing  us  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  I  would  not  be  anything  else  myself.  One 
loyal  Irishman  is  as  good  as  two  Englishmen." 

"  As  good  as  one,  certainly,"  says  Denis,  laughing. 

''  No— two,  man — two;  and  better!"  says  the  squire, 
with  determination.  He  is  sitting  up  very  straight,  look- 
ing as  though  he  defies  the  other  to  contradict  him;  and 
his  hair,  which  is  as  thick  on  his  head  now  as  when  he  was 
a  boy,  has  risen  in  the  heat  of  the  argument  and  is  erect 
and  bristhug.     It  is  this  assumption  of  authority,  with  itjj 


THE    DUCHESS.  29 

accompanying  touch  of  would-be  asperity — the  very  lamest 
touch — that  has  earned  for  him  from  his  laughter-loving 
neighbors  the  title  of  "squire/*  which,  as  we  all  know, 
is  not  an  Irish  one.  "  I^m  afraid  you  haven't  learned 
your  lessons,'*  he  goes  on,  laughing.  "  You'll  have  to  go 
down,  sir,  if  you  don't  bluster  a  bit  these  times.  Norah! 
I  say.  Duchess!  Where  on  earth  has  that  child  gone? 
She's  forever  disappearing  just  when  I  want  her." 

"  I  think  you  sent  her  away  that  time  when  you  wanted 
to  swear,"  says  Denis,  mildly,  knocking  the  ash  off  his 
cigar. 

"So  I  did.  I  remember  now.  There  you  are,  my 
Duchess/'  as  Norah  once  more  comes  lingeringiy  up  to 
them.  "  And  without  that  other  pipe.  Never  mind,  here 
it  is  in  my  pocket,  after  all!  But  you  might  have  brought 
your  cousin  one." 

"  My  cousin  knows  better  than  to  smoke  pipes,*'  says 
the  girl,  bending  over  her  father  and  daintily  ruffling  his 
hair.  *'  *Tis  only  a  vieux  mustache  like  you  who  can  do 
that  nowadays. " 

"Is  it  so?" said  the  squire,  sharply,  turning  suddenly 
on  Denis,  and  for  the  first  time  becoming  aware  that  he  is 
smoking  a  cigar.  "  Bless  me,  the  fools  you  boys  are! 
Why  you  don't  know  what's  good  for  you;  you'll  go  to 
your  grave,  I  dare  say,  without  learning  the  company  there 
is  in  a  pipe.  Why,  it's  twice  as  good  as  that  weed  of  yours 
and  twice  the  comfort." 

Replacing  his  comfort  in  his  mouth  he  leans  back  in  his 
chair  and  contemplates  the  surrounding  landscape  with  an 
air  of  perfect  conteut  that  mi^jht  also  be  termed  superb, 


80  THE    i>UCHE»a. 

From  where  they  eifc  a  glimpse  of  the  ocean  may  be  canght, 

as  r:  lies  serene  and  placid  basking  in  the  rays  of  the  now 
setting  sun.  To  their  right  rise  mountains,  high,  wooded, 
and  tinged  now  by  the  purple  flames  of  a  dying  day; 
whilst  to  their  left  lies,  silent  and  solitary,  as  **  illigant  "  a 
bog  as  the  heart  of  an  Irishman  could  desire.  So  large  it 
is,  so  swampy;  so  suggestive  of  fevers  and  agues — and 
snipe! 

"D'ye  see  that?"  demands  the  squire,  after  a  prolonged 
survey  of  it.  He  has  removed  his  pipe  from  his  mouth, 
and  now  points  with  it  majestically  to  the  bog  in  question. 
"  That's  mine!" 

"  Lot  of  waste  ground,"  says  his  nephew,  lazily,  who, 
after  all,  has  been  a  long  time  off  his  native  heath. 

**  Waste?"  echoes  the  squire,  indignantly.  "  What  do 
you  mean?  Why  it's  the  finest  snipe  bog  in  Ireland! 
Waste,  is  it?  Wait  till  you  come  here  at  Ohristmas-time 
and  you'll  see  how  much  waste  there  is  about  it." 

"  Oh!  looking  at  it  in  that  light!"  says  the  young  man 
hastily,  who  indeed  is  a  splendid  shot  and  very  devoted  to 
sports  of  all  kinds.  "  If  that  is  an  invitation,  my  dear 
uncle,  you  may  expect  me  next  Christmas." 

"  I'll  hold  you  to  your  word.  I'm  sorry,  however, 
there's  nothing  for  you  now  save  rabbits.  But  you  have 
brought  your  gun?" 

"  No,"  regretfully. 

"Oh!  you  ought,  man!  You  should  never  travel  with- 
out your  gun  and  your  tooth-pick,  as  my  poor  father  used 
to  say;  and  faith  he  might  have  added  a  brace  of  loaded 
revolvers  if  he  had  lived  in  these  days.     However,  don't 


THE    DUCHESS.  31 

forget  it  at  Christmas  when  you  come,  and  I  promise  you 
we'll  have  many  a  good  day  of  it  in  that  same  '  waste  '  bit 
of  ground!'* 

It  is  evident  that  he  has  taken  the  word  hardly. 

"I  tell  you,"  warming  to  the  subject,  "the  snij^e 
swarm  there  like  bees.  Why,  there  was  one  winter  here — 
was  it  last  winter,  now?"  meditatively.  "  Norah,  what 
winter  was  it  that  the  snipe  were  so  plentiful  round  here?" 

'*  It  was  five  winters  ago,"  says  the  Duchess,  with  a 
little  nod. 

"  Five?  Was  it  now?  Well,  there's  nothing  so  deceiv- 
ing as  time!  Anyhow,'''  turning  again  to  Denis,  "  what- 
ever winter  it  was,  they  were  as  thick  as  peas,  and  so  tame 
you  could  sweep  them  off  the  hall  doorsteps  in  the  morn- 
ing!" 

This  astounding  announcement  is  given  without  a  blush. 
Denis,  who  is  evidently  delighted  with  it,  and  the  teller  of 
it,  laughs  out  loud. 

"  Ah!  you  may  laugh  if  you  like;  but  we  know,  don't 
we,  Korah?"  giving  his  daughter's  ear  a  loving  pinch. 
Norah  remains  discreetly  silent. 

"  She  doesn't,"  says  Denis,  mischievously,  looking  at 
her  with  such  persistency  that  he  gains  his  point,  and 
compels  those  sweet,  expressive  eyes  to  seek  his  own. 

''What!  Duchess!  Turning  traitor?"  cries  the  squire, 
catching  her  hand  and  pulling  her  forward.  "  Why,  don't 
you  know  yet,  after  all  I  have  taught  you,  that  when  your 
father  tells  a  tarra-diddle,  it  is  your  duty  to  back  him  up? 
Alas!  the  hours  I've  wasted  on  your  education!  You 
must  excuse  her,  sir,"  turning  to  Denis  with  an  irresistible 


99  THE    J)LUi:liiSS. 

air  of  apology.     *'  She  is  still  sadly  deficient  in  many  little 
wayel*' 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  And  grace  that  won  who  saw  to  wish  her  stay." 

Last  niglifc  some  rain  had  fallen,  short  and  youthful 
showers,  leaving  small  ruin  in  their  track  and  lending  a 
deeper  brilliancy  to  branch  and  bough  and  waving  grasses, 
that  all  look  the  fresher  for  their  midnight  bath. 

"  Green  grow  the  rushes,  01" 

Merrily,  blithely,  skim  the  swallows  through  the  velvet 
air!  Coo!  Coo!  sigh  the  wood-doves  from  the  dark  en- 
trances to  the  plantations  beyond;  and  through  all  and 
above  it  comes  the  swish-swish  of  the  waves  as  they  break 
upon  the  beach  far  down  bialow. 

A  heavy  bunch  of  creamy  roses,  wet  still  with  glistening 
rain-drops,  is  flung  by  a  small  but  unerring  hand  at  the 
casement  of  Delaney's  room.  It  is  as  yet  early  morning, 
and  Denis,  coming  to  the  window  in  answer  to  this  per- 
fumed command,  stands  revealed  in  his  shirt  sleeves  and 
armed  with  two  brushes  that  have  as  yet  hardly  succeeded 
in  reducing  his  hair  to  order. 

"  Come  out!  Come  out!"  cries  a  fresh,  sweet  voice. 
"  What!  not  dressed  yet?  Why,  what  do  you  think  I 
have  already  done?  I've  been  down  to  the  beach.  I  have 
had  a  swim.  I  have  come  back  again  and  am  now  re- 
gowned!     Oh!  what  a  lazy  boy  you  are!** 


THE    DUCHESS.  33 

Indeed  it  may  all  very  well  be  true.  So  sweet  a  picture 
she  makes,  looking  up  at  him  with  her  pretty  head  thrown 
back  and  her  face,  fresh  as  the  morning  and  as  a  lily  fain 
**  1*11  be  out  in  a  moment,*'  says  he,  not  without  a 
thought  of  his  present  rather  unorthodox  costume;  but 
such  thought  he  allows  after  a  swift  glance  at  her  is  a 
cruel  waste  of  time.  There  is  no  mock  modesty  about  her; 
no  mcmvaise  Jionte  anywhere.  Is  he  not  her  cousin,  and 
is  not  a  cousin  a  sort  of  half-brother?  / 

"  You  should  have  been  out  an  hour  ago.  The  air  then 
was  delicious.  Hurry  now,  do,  and  put  on  your  coat  and 
we'll  have  a  run  before  breakfast.  Here,"  flinging  him  a 
rosebud,  **  put  that  in  your  button-hole,  and  hurry,  hurry, 
hurry  1" 

There  is  scarcely  need  for  such  injunction.  Never  in 
his  life  before  did  he  hurry  through  his  toilet  in  such  fran- 
tic haste;  and  presently  he  has  his  reward.  Long,  long 
years  afterward  he  can  recall  to  mind  the  strange,  wild, 
happy  sense  of  utter  enjoyment  that  clung  round  that 
morning  hour  spent  with  her,  ere  the  dew  was  lifted  from 
the  flowers  or  the  heart  of  the  day  was  opened. 

Then  comes  breakfast — a  merry  meal — as  neither  the 
squire  nor  his  daughter  can  refrain  from  giving  way  to  a* 
spontaneous  gayety  that  affects  one  sympathetically  and 
draws  one  into  the  swift  current  of  its  own  sprightliness. 
And  after  breakfast  there  is  half  an  hour  with  the  squire, 
who  insists  upon  his  guest  following  him  round  the  ex- 
tremely untidy  farm-yard  and  giving  his  opinion  upon  this 
and  that.  And  then  there  is  the  Duchess  to  cope  with  for 
the  rest  of  the  delicious,  lazy,  sultry  afternoon. 


84  THE    DUCHESS. 

'*  You  play  tennis?"  asks  Denis,  idly,  when  they  have 
sauntered  through  the  old-world  garden,  and  gathered 
themselves  in  a  desultory  fashion  a  very  ideal  bouquet. 

**  Yes  I    Oh  I  yes,*'  with  a  brightening  eye. 

**  You  have  a  court?" 

The  Duchess  colors. 

*'A — a  sort  of  one,**  she  confesses.  ''I" — ^hanging 
her  head,  *'  I'm  afraid  it  isn't  the  kind  of  one  to  which 
you  have  been  accustomed." 

That  this  is  highly  probable  a  second's  reflection  assures 
Denis,  but  he  refrains  from  saying  so. 

*'  Lead  on!"  he  says  instead,  with  a  severe  glance. 
*'  You  are  evidently  trying  to  shirk  the  contest,  and  I  am 
bent  (I  warn  you)  on  giving  you  a  beating  that  will  last 
your  life-time. " 

*^Ah!  So!'*  cried  the  Duchess,  her  Irish  blood  taking 
fire  at  once,  forgetful  of  her  late  fears.   "  Come  on,  then!" 

The  court,  when  he  comes  to  it — half  reluctantly  led 
thereto  by  the  Duchess,  whose  desire  for  battle  had  cooled 
again  as  the  march  commenced,  knowing  what  the  in- 
tended field  looked  like — is  of  so  unusual  an  appearance 
that  it  needs  all  his  self-command  and  good  breeding  to 
keep  him  from  evincing  his  surprise.  It  is  indeed  meant 
for  a  court  because  it  is  portioned  off  by  an  extremely 
rustic  railing  from  the  field  beyond — a  stubby  field — yet 
but  for  the  railing  it  might  have  belonged — been  part  and 
parcel  of  the  stubby  field.     In  fact  it  was — last  month! 

*'  It  is  horrid;  you  won't  like  to  play  on  it!"  says  the 
poor  little  Duchess,  plaintively,  who  has  been  enduring 


THE    DUCHESS.  35 

agonies  of  shame  on  the  way  hither.  There  is  indeed  such 
a  wealth  of  misery  in  her  expression  as  would  have  made  a 
worse  man  swear  he  would  play  in  it  or  die. 

"  Is  that  your  plan  of  getting  out  of  your  beating?'*  says 
Denis,  scornfully,  waving  his  racket  on  high.  "  If  so  it's 
a  vain  one,  my  good  child;  you'll  got  it  in  spite  of  all  your 
efforts  to  the  contrary.  Come!  let's  begin.  I  thirst  for 
the  fray!" 

If  this  indeed  be  the  truth  his  thirst  is  considerably 
quenched  after  the  first  draught.  The  ground  may  be  bad 
— nay,  it  is  inconceivably  so;  the  balls  abominable;  but 
the  Duchess,  at  all  events,  is  an  unconquerable  foe!  Now 
here,  now  there  she  darts,  swift  as  a  flash  of  lightning, 
taking  his  hardest  balls  as  though  they  were  child's  play  to 
her;  giving  him  balls  impossible — in  effect  "  taking  the 
shine  out  of  him  "  altogether,  as  they  say  down  here. 

Is  she  a  spirit,  or  an  imp,  or  a  girl?  Was  there  ever  so 
light-footed  a  creature,  or  one  so  sure  of  her  stroke?  And 
was  there  ever  one  who  at  the  end  of  a  set  (won  literally 
off  her  own  bat)  could  look  so  cool,  so  lovely,  so  little  tri- 
umphant? 

"  You're  a  swindle!"  says  Denis,  who  is  as  hot  as  she  is 
cool,  as  crimson  as  she  is  pale.  "  You  are,"  changing  hi?, 
tune,  "  a  marvelous  creaturel"  He  says  this  in  a  panting 
tone,  from  where  he  has  flung  himself  exhausted  on  the 
grass.  It  is  no  joke,  you  see,  playing  a  single  game  on  a 
hot  day  in  July.  **  Why  don't  you  look  surprised?"  he 
goes  on.  **  You  might,  if  only  for  generosity's  sake. 
Why  don't  you  jeer  at  me?  Are  you  not  proud  of  your 
self?" 


36  THE    DUCHESS. 

**  Well,  no,"  says  the  Duchess,  mildly.     *'  To  tell  yon 

the  truth,  I  generally  beat  everybody f*' 

Denis,  as  if  amused  by  this  naive  remark,  which  is  rich 
in  truth,  gives  way  to  sudden  laughter. 

'*  You'll  bring  them  down  a  peg  or  two  at  the  Castle,*' 
he  says,  inadvertently.  Then — *'  Don't  sit  so  far  away 
from  me  over  there;  you  might  as  well  be  in  the  next 
eouut3^  Come  over  here  and  enjoy  with  me  the  shade  of 
this  hospitable  tree.  I'd  go  to  you,  only  you  have  knocked 
me  up  so  completely." 

*'  Poor  thing!**  says  the  Duchess,  with  deep  compassion. 
She  comes  to  him  at  once  and  slips  down  on  the  grass  be- 
side him,  and  generously  pulls  out  a  corner  of  her  gown 
that  he  may  rest  his  head  upon  it. 

*'  Who  taught  you  to  play  tenuis  in  that  masterly 
style?*'  asks  he,  when  he  has  settled  himself  comfortably, 
and  as  close  to  her  as  circumstances  will  permit.  *'  I 
thought  you  told  me  you  had  no  neighbors?'* 

"  What  a  melancholy  thought!  We  are  not  quite  so  des- 
titute as  all  that.  I  think  what  1  said  to  you  was,  that 
there  were  no  young  men  here;  but  there  are  plenty  of 
girls.  That,**  with  a  little  laugh,  "is  bad  enough,  isn't 
it,  without  adding  to  it?'* 

''I  don't  think  girls  could  teach  you  to  play  as  you 
do." 

"  Well,  there  are  some  old  men,  too.  Dad  can  take 
most  balls,  and  the  recior  is  no  mean  foe.  And  Lord 
Kilgarriff,  when  he  is  at  home,  gives  me  lessons;  vut  he  is 
so  often  away.** 


THE    DUCHESS.  37 

"Lord  Kilgarriff,"  turning  lazily  on  his  elbow  to  look 
at  her;  **  who  is  he?     Another  old  neighbor?" 

''  The  oldest  we  have.  I  remember  him  quite  as  long 
as  I  can  remember  anything.'* 

("  Old  fogy  evidently/*  thinks  the  young  man,  with  an 
unconscious  pleasure  in  thus  thinking.)  "Where  is  he 
now?"  aloud. 

*'  Abroad.  Somewhere  in  Germany.  I  forget  the  name 
of  the  town.  There  was  a  professor  of  sometliing  or  other 
there  whom  he  wished  to  see. " 

("  Musty  old  pedant  beyond  doubt/'  decides  Delaney, 
still  carrying  out  that  first  satisfactory  train  of  thought. ) 
*'  Book- worm,  I  suppose/'  he  says,  civilly,  if  supercilious- 
ly. "  That  sort  is  generally  a  bore,  don't  you  think?  One 
can  hardly  fancy  an  old  fellow  devoted  to  his  '  Aldines, 
Bodonis,  Elzevirs,'  wielding  the  frivolous  racket.  By  the 
bye,  how  old  is  he?  Old  enough  to  be  your  grandfather — 
eh?" 

"  Well — hardly,  perhaps,"  with  a  treacherous  uncer- 
tainty of  tone.  "Let  me  see.  On  his  last  birthday  he 
was,  I  am  almost  sure — " 

"Ninety-nine!" 

"  N— 0.     Twenty-five!" 

"  What!"  says  her  cousin,  sitting  upright  and  coloring 
warmly.  Then,  as  though  the  absurdity  of  his  extreme 
astonishment  strikes  him,  he  sinks  back  again  into  his 
former  position  and  alters  the  expression  of  his  face.  "  I 
fancied  him  a  modern  Methusaleh.  I  scarcely  know  why," 
he  says,  indifferently.  "  A  friend  of  my  uncle's  rathei 
than  yours. " 


38  THE    DUCHESS. 

**  His  father  was  dad's  greatest  chum  down  here.  They 
were  at  college  together,  and  when  he  died  a  year  ago  dad 
fretted  after  him  very  much.     Otho  is  now  the  earl." 

Otho!  Somehow  the  word,  so  sweetly  uttered,  so  plain- 
ly familiar,  grates  upon  liis  ear. 

"He  is  abroad,"  he  says,  abruptly.     "  For  long?*' 

*'  No,  he  returns  next  week.*' 

**  How  do  you  know?** 

"  He  told  me  so  in  his  last  letter,**  replies  she,  simply. 

Silence  follows  this  ordinary  answer.  Denis,  lying  back 
with  his  hands  clasj^ed  behind  his  head  is,  to  all  appear- 
ance, gazing  with  rapt  attention  at  the  pale  white  clouds 
floating  in  the  dazzling  blue  of  the  sky  overhead:  and  yet 
—and  yet — what  is  this  curious  sense  of  dissatisfaction, 
this  contraction  of  the  heart,  that  is  almost  a  pain?  It  is 
sharp  enough  at  all  events  to  rouse  him  to  a  clear  under- 
standing of  his  own  position,  and  with  the  rush  of  memory 
comes  the  knowledge  that  he  of  all  men  has  no  right  to 
feel  anything  but  unconcern  about  the  girl's  affairs — this 
lovely  child,  who,  whilst  he  is  working  out  the  right  and 
wrong  of  it  all,  is  employing  her  little  idle  brown  fingers 
upon  the  adornment  of  his  head. 

Surely  it  is  true  that 

"  Satan  finds  some  mischief  stDl  for  idle  hands  to  do." 

Through  and  through  the  few  short  hairs  that  his  barber 
has  left  him  she  is  threading  pieces  of  grass,  pulling  them 
out  again  and  rearranging  them  as  fancy  dictates,  care- 
lessly, dreamily. 

Denis,  with  this  new  strange  fear  at  his  heart,  lifts  his 


THE   nrcHESS.  39 

own  hand,  and,  taking  hers  from  his  head,  puts  it  away 
from  him  with  a  Spartan  determination. 

"  Do  you  know,^'  he  says,  sharply,  with  a  rather  forced 
smile,  ' '  that — that  the  eilect  of  your  fingers  going  in  and 
out  like  that — is — is  maddening?*' 

"  Don't  you  like  it?"  asks  she,  genuine  surprise  in  her 
tone.  She  stoops  over  him  and  gazes  into  his  half-averted 
face  as  if  to  assure  herself  that  he  really  can  mean  it. 
"  Why,  Otho  loves  it!  He  says  it  is  as  soothing  as  a 
cigarette. " 

"  I  am  not  Otho.  It  does  not  soothe  me,'*  says  Denis, 
still  with  that  unnatural  assumption  of  pleasantry.  "  So 
far  from  it  that  I  believe  a  continuance  of  it  would  be  dan- 
gerous— for  me — not  for  you,"  smiling. 

As  though  to  place  temptation  beyond  his  reach,  he 
seizes  upon  his  hitherto  discarded  hat,  and  with  quite  a 
heroic  air  crushes  it  down  upon  his  head,  lol  even  to  his 
brow. 

"  Oh!  you  needn't  lecture  me  about  it,"  says  the  Duch- 
ess, with  a  little  offended  glance  from  under  her  long 
lashes;  "  aiid  3'^ou  needn't  put  on  your  hat  like  that.  I  am 
not  going  to  touch  you.  I  don't  want  to  stick  straws  in' 
your  hair,  believe  me.  I  was  merely  doing  it  to  please 
you  because  Otho  says — " 

"Oh!  confound  Otho!"  interposes  her  cousin,  impul- 
sively; and  a  second  later  is  covered  with  confusion.  What 
in  Heaven's  name  is  the  matter  with  him  this  morning.'' 
What  must  she  think  of  him?  The  enormity  of  his  mis- 
demeanor is  clear  to  him;  but  it  is  not  so  clear  as  to  how 
lie  shall  apologize  for  it;  how  exphiin  away  his  unreasona- 


40  Tlli;    DICUESS. 

ble  burst  of  irritation  about  what  has,  or  at  all  eventi 

should  have,  no  element  of  annoyance  about  it?  Whilst, 
stricken  with  remorse,  he  is  casting  about  him  for  some 
decent  excuse  to  offer  for  his  conduct,  the  Duchess,  strik- 
ing boldly  into  the  situation,  makes  an  end  of  it. 

'*  You  are  cross,"  she  says,  calmly,  regarding  him  with 
a  judicial  eye.  "  You  are  indeed,"  with  severe  meaning, 
**  extremely  queer  altogether.  Do  you  think  the  sun  is 
too  hot  for  you,  or  the  flies  too  troublesome?  If  you  think 
you  are  going  to  have  a  sunstroke  or — or  anything  of  that 
sort,  I  should  be  glad  if  you  would  give  me  timely  warn- 
ing.'' It  is  evident  that  she  is  rather  disgusted  with 
him. 

*'  I  fling  myself  upon  your  grace's  mercy,**  returns  he 
with  a  smile  that  is  very  imploring  in  spite  of  the  lightness 
of  his  tone.  "  If  you  will  believe  me  I  don't  know  what 
is  the  matter  with  me!"  This  is  strictly  true.  "  I  have, 
I  suppose,  a  wretched  temper,  and  I  lost  it,  and — '* 

"And  a  very  good  thing,  too!'*  cries  she,  gayly.  "If 
it  is  so  wretched  as  you  say  you  may  be  congratulated  on 
your  loss.  There,  don't  look  so  miserable.  I  forgive 
you." 

"It  is  more  than  I  deserve  then.  By  and  by,"  tak- 
ing the  little  hand  he  had  so  rudely  repulsed  and  tenderly 
smoothing  it,  "  you  will  remember  me  only  as  an  ill-tem- 
pered fellow  who — *' 

"  No!  No,  indeed!"  sweetly.  *'  You  must  not  think 
that.  Shall  I  tell  you  something?"  bending  down  and 
looking  at  him  with  such  a  lovely,  earnest  gaze.  *'  I  like 
you  already — already,  mind  you — much  better  than  any 


TH7^.    DtTHEfiS.  41 

one    I    have    ever  yet  met.     Always  excepting  dad,  of 
course.  ** 

*'  What!  Better  than  Kilgarriff?"  asks  he,  nnable  to 
refrain  from  this  question. 

"  A  thousand  times  better!**  frankly.  "  Though,  in- 
deed,* *  with  sudden  contrition,  "  yoa  must  understand 
that  I  am  very  fond  of  Otho,  too.** 

Delaney,  who  is  watching  her  with  eager  eyes,  sighs  im- 
patiently. Oh!  that  she  were  a  little  less  frank,  a  little 
more  reserv^ed.  He  would  that  he  could  have  seen  some 
faint  hesitation  in  her  tone,  the  lightest  suspicion  of  a 
blush  upon  her  pretty  cheek.  But  there  is  none — noth- 
ing. 

And  then  once  again  there  comes  the  rush  of  memory, 
and  with  it  the  new  fear  and  the  angry  self-contempt. 

Why  should  he  wish  her  less  frank?  What  should  be 
hoped  from  any  new-born  shyness?  Has  he  forgotten 
honor,  everything,  in  two  short  days  and  part  of  a  third? 

It  is  all  a  mere  touch  of  folly,  a  veritable  midsummer 
madness.     He  will  fling  the  thought  of  it  far  from  him. 

But  alas!  alas!  this  is  easier  said  than  done. 

And  in  the  silent  watches  of  the  sleepless  night,  when 
most  things  are  laid  bare  to  us,  he  knows  that  at  last  fair 
love  has  caught  him  in  its  toils,  and  that  for  weal  or  woe 
-^nay,  woe,  for  a  certainty — ^he  is  a  slave  for  evermore. 
At  the  feet  of  her  who  but  a  few  days  ago  was  as  nothing 
to  him  his  heart  lies  wonnded— stricken — hopelesbt 


4S  THE    I>UGfi£0«. 


OHAPrER  VL 

"  Mf  valor  is  certainly  goiDgl  it  is  sneaking  off." 

"  HistI  Norahl"  says  the  sqaire  in  a  subdued  tone, 
putting  his  head  cautiously  outside  the  door  of  his  own 
favorite  deu  and  beckoning  her  to  come  in,  great  mystery 
in  all  his  bearing.  Drawing  her  in  he  closes  the  door  care- 
fully behind  him  and  regards  her  with  an  anxious  eye. 

It  is  the  next  morning  and  there  is  much  sign  of  an  em- 
barrassed mind  about  the  squire.  He  looks  puzzled, 
"perplexed  in  the  extreme/'  and  his  hair  has  taken  that 
pronounced  stage  generally  caused  by  the  running  through 
it  of  nervous  fingers. 

"  He'll  stay  the  week!"  he  says  at  last,  getting  it  out 
with  rather  a  Jerk.  "  The  whole  week,  to  a  moral.  I 
told  you  how  'twould  be." 

A  little  thrill  of  pleasure  rushes  through  Norah. 

"Well!  You  aren't  sorry,  are  you?"  she  asks,  re- 
proachfully. "  Remember  all  you  said  about  the  duties  of 
hospitality  and  the — " 

"  Nonsense,  now,  Norah!  What  way  is  that  to  speak? 
Sorry,  is  it?  Why,  it's  delighted  I  am!  I  wish  he  could 
stay  a  month,  only —  Why,  I  never  met  a  nicer  fellow — 
never.     Did  you,  now?" 

"  Never,"  says  Norah,  sincerely. 

"'Tisn't  that  at  all— but— but,  Noddlekins,"  sinking 
his  voice  to  a  whisper,  "  do  you  think  they  will  hold  out?" 


THE    DUCHESS.  43 

"What?''  startled.  "The  chickens  — the  mutton? 
Even  if  they  don't  we  can  get — '* 

"  Oh,  bother  take  the  chickens  and  the  mutton/'  cries 
the  squire  in  a  frenzied  tone.  "  Who's  thinking  of  them? 
'Tisn't  the  dinner  that's  troubling  me.  Duchess — 'tis  the 
clothes!"  Here  he  grows  almost  apoplectic  in  his  en- 
deavors to  whisper  and  still  give  to  his  words  the  emphasis 
they  deserve.  "  Oh,  Norah,  darling,  last  night  I  thought 
I'd  have  died  in  'em.  Specially  the  coat!  I  felt  burst- 
ing!" 

"  That's  how  you  looked,  too,"  says  the  Duchess,  with 
deep  sympathy.  "  Why  not  leave  them  off,  dad,  darling? 
I'm  sure  you  look  ever  so  nice  in  your  Sunday  ones. 
Quite  lovely,  indeed,  when  your  hair  is  cut. " 

"  Never!'*  says  the  squire,  heroically.  "  I've  begun  and 
I'll  finish  in  'em,  though  they  be  the  death  of  me.  D'ye 
think  I'd  let  him  go  back  to  the  Castle,  to  madame,  my 
own  sister-in-law,  and  say  I  dined  in  fustian?" 

"  He  wouldn't,"  says  Norah,  indignantly,  "  What  do 
you  take  him  for?" 

"  It  might  come  out  all  the  same,  and  then  we'd  be  dis- 
graced for  life.  But  what  I  was  thinking  is  this,"  regarding 
her  anxiously.  '*  If  I  were  to  ease  them  a  bit!  Eh?  To 
give  a  little  snip  to  the  stitching  under  the  arms,  you 
know.  It  would  be  a  great  relief  to  me — and— and  he'd 
never  see  it.     Eh,  now?" 

"Not  for  the  world!"  declares  Norah,  vehemently. 
"Cut  one  stitch  and  the  whole  thing  will  go.  Why,  dad, 
think  of  their  age!  They  were  made  before  I  was  bora 
They  must  be  twenty  years  old  at  least." 


44  THE    DUCHESS. 

"  Thirty,  my  love,  I  think,"  says  the  poor  squire,  mt)i 
much  dejection.  It  is  a  great  blow  to  him  that  that 
"snip ''has  been  forbidden.  "And  you  really  thin  ii  I 
couldn't  ease  them?  It's  great  agony,  Norah.  I  assure 
you,  my  dear,  there  was  a  moment  last  night  when  I  felt 
as  if  I  was  going  to  sneeze.  I'll  never  forget  it.  If  I  had, 
all  would  have  been  over  with  me!  Not  a  seam,  not  a 
button,  would  have  been  left!  I  thought  I  should  have 
died  of  fright!  It  really  makes  me  very  anxious,  my  dear; 
and  it's  a  thing  that  may  occur  again.  I'm  rather  given 
to  sneezing." 

"  You  are.  It  is  a  great  misfortune,"  says  Norah,  sad- 
ly.    "  I  wish  you  could  cure  yourself." 

*'  I  assure  you  I  can't  even  laugh  comfortably,"  goes  on 
the  scjuire,  with  a  sigh;  "  and  that's  a  great  loss  to  me. 
'Tis  a  thing  I'm  not  accustomed  to.  I  don't  believe  they'll 
stand  a  week  of  it,  Norah.  I  don't  indeed;  and  if  they  do 
give  I  sha'n't  be  able  to  hold  up  my  head  again." 

"  I'll  get  a  good  strong  bit  of  housewife's  thread  and 
sew  the  seams  on  the  inside  wherever  they  look  strained, 
and  then  you  can  laugh,"  says  his  daughter,  giving  him 
an  encouraging  pat  on  his  broad  back, 

"  If  you  do,  I'm  thinking  you'll  sew  the  suit,"  says  he, 
still  melancholy.  "There  isn't  a  seam  in  it  that  you 
couldn't  burst  with  a  decent  sigh." 

He  looks  at  her  as  if  defying  her  to  deny  this,  and  then, 
all  suddenl}^,  without  so  much  as  a  second's  warning,  he 
bursts  out  into  an  irresistible  peal  of  laughter.  His  laugh 
and  Norah's  are  just  the  same — musical,  hearty,  com- 
pelling.    To  hear  them  is  to  join  in  them,  nolens  volens. 


THE    DUCHESS.  45 

Long  aud  loud  he  laughed,  Norah  keeping  hina  company, 
without  exactly  knowing  why;  but  youth,  especially  Irish 
youth,  is  prone  to  laughter,  and  is  always  thankful  for  a 
chance  of  giving  way  to  it. 

"Speak!  Speak!"  cries  she,  at  last.  "I  can't  laugh 
forever  without  a  reason  for  it.  It*s  an  unsatisfactory  kind 
of  mirth.'* 

*'  I  was  thinking,"  says  he,  still  choking,  "  that  if  I  did 
burst  those  clothes  what  a  row  there  would  be.  Such  an 
explosion!  Just  think  of  his  face  and  yours!  and  your 
poor  old  dad  at  the  head  of  the  table — ha!  ha!  ha! — with 
vacancies  in  his  raiment  aud —    Oh,  my!  oh,  my!'* 

The  tears  of  mirth  are  running  down  his  cheeks  as  he 
pictures  to  himself  the  scene  that  a  moment  before  had  re- 
duced him  to  despair.  Ii^orah,  too,  is  laughing  with  all 
her  heart,  when  Denis,  opening  the  door,  thrusts  in  his 
laead. 

**  It  does  one  good  to  hear  you,"  he  says.  "  May  I 
know  what  it  is  all  about?" 

"  No;  it  isn't  good  enough,"  says  the  Duchess,  hastily. 
"  It  is  too  ancient;  a  perfectly  threadbare  joke." 

"  Good  for  you.  Duchess!"  cries  the  squire,  beginning 
to  explode  again.  ''  Faith,  the  subject  of  it  is  threadbare 
enough  in  all  conscience  and  ancient  to  a  fault. " 

"  Never  mind,  dad.  You  have  come  to  tell  us  some- 
thing," says  Norah,  addressing  her  cousin  pointedly,  as  if 
to  turn  his  atteation  from  the  squire,  who  is  in  quite  a 
dangerous  mood.     "  That  letter  in  your  hand — " 

"  Is  from  my  mother,  asking  me  whea  I  intend  retoro* 
ing.' 


4(J  THE    DUCHESS. 

**  My  dear  boyi  Why,  you  have  only  just  come!**  ex* 
claims  tlie  squire,  forgetful  now  of  the  joke,  the  fragility 
of  the  evening  clothes,  everything. 

*'  Nevertheless  she  says  she  can't  do  without  me.  The 
house  is  full  of  people,  and  it  appears  the  task  of  keeping 
them  in  a  good  temper  is  beyond  her.  Norah,  she  also 
wants  to  know  if  you  are  coming  back  with  me.'* 

**  Back  with  you?  To  the  Castle?  Ob,  no!  Certainly 
not!"  says  the  Duchess,  in  a  tone  of  horror.  All  tlie 
laughter  is  gone  now,  giving  place  to  nervous  astonish- 
ment. Involuntarily  she  steps  backward  until  she  reaches 
the  wall  behind  her,  as  if  desirous  of  getting  as  far  from 
the  Castle  in  question  as  possible.  No  words  could  be  as 
eloquent  as  this  movement. 

"  But  why?*'  asks  the  young  man,  reproachfully.  "  My 
mother  is  so  anxious  to  make  your  acquaintance  that  she 
will  take  your  refusal  hardly.  As  you  know,  she  can  not 
well  come  to  you  at  present,  but  if  you  will  go  to  her — '* 

'*  I  haven't  thought  of  it.    I  didn't  know  she  wished — " 

"  I  told  your  father.  You  didn't  tell  her?"  looking 
at  the  squire,  who  is  now  the  picture  of  guilt. 

"  I  recollect  something  about  it.  I  believe  you  did  say 
that  madame  would  like  to  see  her,"  says  he,  temporizing 
disgracefully,  the  fact  being  that  he  had  remembered,  but 
had  decided  from  the  first  that  Norah  could  never  get  on 
without  him  or  he  without  Norah. 

"  More  than  that,  I  gave  you  my  mother's  invitation. 
I  hope,  Norah,"  regarding  her  earnestly,  "  that  you  will 
accept  it.     You  will  like  my  mother,  I  know,  and  as  there 


THE    DUCHESS.  47 

are  bo  many  people  staying  there  at  present  yoa  won't  feel 
dull." 

"  Oh!    That's  jasfc  it,"  miserably. 

"  What?" 

**  All  those  people!"  growing  quite  pale. 

"  Nonsense!"  laughing.  **  Not  one  of  them  will  eat 
you,  and  some  may  amuse  you.  I  am  quite  sure  you  will 
enjoy  it. " 

"  I  shouldn't,  indeed.  Dad,"  indignantly,  **  why  don't 
you  speak?  Why  don't  you  say  I  should  be  wretched  away 
from  your^' 

"  She  would.  She  would  indeed,  I  assure  you,"  says 
the  squire,  waking  to  an  enthusiastic  defense  of  the  posi- 
tion because  of  that  indignant  glance.  *'  I  assure  you,  my 
dear  Denis,  she  would  be  the  most  melancholy  creature 
alive  if  deprived  of  my  society  even  for  a  day!" 

He  says  it  in  such  perfect  good  faith  and  with  such  an 
open  desire  to  help  her  in  her  extremity  that  he  is  irresisti- 
ble.    Even  Norah  gives  way  to  laughter. 

"  It  is  true,  though,"  she  says  to  Denis,  a  little  defiant- 
ly. "  We  have  never  been  separated,  never.  Even  for 
the  three  years  I  was  at  school  in  France  he  came  over  and 
lived  there  with  me." 

"Then  I  wish  you  would  change  your  mind  and  come 
to  Ventry,  too,"  says  Denis. 

"I  wish  I  could,"  says  the  squire,  who  indeed  would 
have  desired  nothing  better;  ^'but  I'm  tied  by  the  heels 
just  now.     You  know  what  a  worry  the  tenants  are?" 

He  refrains  from  mention  of  the  evening  suit  anil  tiit 
utter  mability  to  order  a  new  one. 


48  THE    DUCHESS. 

"  Norah,"  says  her  cousiu,  suddenly,  "  come  out  and 
Iwt  us  talkit  07ur.'' 


CHAPTER  VIL 
"  Oh,  the  little  more,  and  how  much  it  isl" 

Outside,  the  world  is  so  fair,  so  fresh,  so  joyous,  that  it 
is  scarcely  to  be  woudered  ab  if  Denis  trusted  to  it  to  help 
him  with  his  pletidiug.  Who  could  prove  unkind  with 
such  a  sun  gilding  such  fleecy  clouds;  who  be  obdurate 
with  all  Nature's  richest  treasures  spread  on  every  side  of 
one  with  such  a  lavish  hand? 

It  rather  upsets  his  theory,  however,  when  on  glancing 
downward  at  his  cousin  he  finds  her  as  hard-hearted  as 
ever. 

"  Well,"  she  says,  with  a  little  vexed  laugh,  catching 
his  expression,  "  what  did  you  expect?  I  have  come  out 
here  with  you  as  you  seemed  to  imagine  great  things  would 
come  of  such  a  move;  but  I  warn  you  it  will  not  do  a  bit 
of  good." 

"  I  wonder  why  you  have  so  determinedly  set  your  face 
against  coming  to  us,'*  says  he,  a  little  offended. 

*'  It  isn't  that,"  hastily.  *'  Don't  think  it  for  a  mo- 
ment. If  it  were  only  you  and  your  mother;  but — the 
fact  is,"  speaking  reluctantly  and  coloring  warmly,**! — 
I'm  afraid!" 

*'  Afraid  of  what?"  incredulously. 

"Of  all  those  strangers.  When  I  think  of  being  alone 
there — amongst  so  many  people  unknown  to  me — without 


THE    DUCHESS.  49 

dad — I  feel — oh!** — ^laying  her  hand  upon  her  boeom — 
"dreadfoll" 

**  But  you  wouldn't  be  alone.  I  shall  be  there!"  says 
Delaney,  the  very  slightest  suspicion  of  a  grievance  in  his 
tone. 

"  Why,  so  you  would/*  says  she,  slowly,  as  if  suddenly 
Hwakening  to  a  hitherto  forgotten  fact.  "  I  never  thought 
of  that;  but  still  you  are  not  dad,  you  know.^' 

This  is  indisputable.  Beyond  all  doubt  she  has  taken 
up  an  unassailable  position.  Acknowledging  this  fact,  De- 
laney gives  up  argument. 

"  I  won't  listen  to  another  objection,"  cries  he,  gayly. 
"  Not  one.  I  insist  on  carrying  you  off  bodily  and  intro- 
ducing you  to  the  lot  of  them,  whether  you  will  or  not.  I 
have  set  my  heart  on  the  doing  of  this,  and  I  know  you 
will  not  have  the  heart  to  thwart  me.  What!  Do  you 
think  I  would  readily  relinquish  the  triumph  of  showing 
you  off  to  them — of  exhibiting  my  captive?  My  very  own 
discovery,  too!** 

He  is  thinking  of  the  sensation  her  beauty  will  create 
even  among-  the  throng  of  pretty  women  with  whom  his 
mother  ever  delights  to  surround  herself.  What  one  of 
that  gay  crowd  could  dare  to  compare  with  her?  Already, 
in  his  fond  fancy,  he  can  see  her  dancing  through  the 
grand  old  rooms  at  Ventry,  or  walking  sedately  through 
its  gardens,  the  sweetest  flower  among  all  those  myriad 
blossoms. 

The  charm  of  this  vision,  however,  it  being  a  mere  men- 
tal vagary,  being  naturally  withheld  from  the  Duchess,  it 
80  happens  that  his  words  fall  with  a  meaning  little  in- 


00  THE    DUCHE88. 

tended  upon  her  ears.  Far  from  seeing  anything  compK- 
mentary  in  them,  she  sees  something  fatally  the  reverse. 
Could  so  lovely  a  thing  as  her  face  be  ever  guilty  of  show- 
ing wrath  undisguised,  now  is  the  time. 

"Show  me  off!'*  she  repeats,  in  a  voice  that  positively 
electrifies  the  ill-fated  Denis.  "  Exhibit  me!  Am  I 
then  a  South  Sea  Islander?  Am  I  to  understand  that  I 
really  differ  so  entirely  from  the  rest  of  your  acquaint- 
ances?'' 

"  As  light  from  darkness,"  replies  he,  with  promptitude, 
though  considerably  puzzled  by  her  tone  and  expression. 

"  Oh!"  says  the  Duchess. 

Great  meaning  may  be  thrown  into  this  apparently 
harmless  monosyllable.  Miss  Delaney  makes  it  so  elo- 
quent that  her  cousin  turns  sharply  to  look  at  her.  What 
can  be  the  matter  with  her?  For  an  instant  their  eyes 
meet;  time  long  enough  to  let  him  see  that  tears  are  stand- 
ing thickly  in  hers. 

"  Norah!  what  is  it?"  he  exclaims,  stopping  short. 
**  Does  this  visit  to  my  mother  make  you  really  so  un- 
happy?   If  I  thought  so — '* 

"It  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,  and  you  know  it!"  re- 
turns she,  resentfully.  This  time  the  tears  are  very  plain 
to  him,  as  she  lifts  two  indignant  eyes  to  his.  Large  and 
brilliant  they  hang  upon  her  lashes,  trembling  to  their 
fall.  *'  But  to  be  told  that  one  is  '  different!'  Of  course,'* 
with  a  baleful  glance  at  him,  '*  I  know  I  am  not  as  those 
others — those  fashionable  friends  of  yours,  who  have  been 
everywhere  and  seen  everything,  and  heard  all  there  is  to 
he»r — ftnd  I  dare  say  "— wiUa  tearful  contempt — "  a  good 


THE    J)L(.llKr;.S.  61 

deal  more!  I  know  I  am  not  like  them,  and  '* — passion- 
ately— '*  I  don't  want  to  be,  either.  But  one  may  be 
different  from  the  people  without  liking  to  hear  it  said. 
One  may  be  absurd  and  old-fashioned  without  wanting  to 
hear  it  put  into  words!'* 

This  terrible  speech  is  poured  forth  with  a  startling 
fluency  that  reduces  Denis  to  a  state  bordering  on  coma. 
Eecovering  himself  by  an  effort,  "  ^orah!  is  it  possible 
you  could  so  misjudge  me?"  he  saj^s,  flushing  hotly. 
"  My  dar — er — h'm — '*  seeking  wildly  for  a  compromise 
— ''  my  dearest  girl!  can  it  be  that  you  don't  see  what  I 
really  meant,  where  the  true  difference  lies?  That  you 
are  the  light— the  rest  of  them  the  darkness.  Oh!  Norah, 
look  at  me!    Say  you  believe  me!" 

'*  I  won't!  I  don't!"  keeping  her  gaze  studiously  avert- 
ed; and  now  the  two  large  tears  detach  themselves  at  last 
from  the  lashes  and  roll  slowly,  pitifully  down  her  cheeks, 
"I'm  sure  you  are  saying  all  that  just  to  please  and  com- 
fort me."    A  little  sob  breaks  from  her. 

It  is  by  a  mighty  effort  alone  that  Delaney  controls  the 
eager  longing  that  now  almost  overpowers  him  to  catch 
her  in  his  arms  and  press  that  sad,  angry  little  face 
against  his  own.  Was  ever  thing  created  fairer  than  this 
child?  Oh,  that  he  were  free  to  woo — perchance  to  win 
her!  Oh,  that  he  had  never  seen  her! — and  yet— not  that! 
He  could  not  wish  that.  With  what  a  strange  suddenness 
she  had  fallen  into  his  life  (and  alas!  how  much  too  late), 
killing  for  him  the  serenity  in  which  he  had  believed  he 
should  live  and  die,  not  knowing  then  the  greatest  good  o' 
all-^nor  having  tasted  of  love's  draught— that  bitter  s^ye^tf 


52  THE    DUCHESSJ 

Now,  all  that  is  over;  serenity  is  dead,  and  peace  has 
flown;  and  here  a  galling  chain  binds  him  secure,  and 
there  stands  love,  uncrowned,  waiting,  it  might  have  been, 
for  him.  A  love  so  sweet,  an  eager,  gracious  thing;  care- 
less as  yet,  with  songs  on  her  lips  and  laughter  in  her  eyes, 
and  no  knowledge  (as  it  seems  to  him)  of  the  cruel  fret 
and  fever  of  the  pain  that  men  call  passion. 

All  this,  or  a  vague  sense  of  it,  runs  through  him  as  he 
stands  there  looking  on  her  tears,  but  when  he  speaks  his 
voice,  though  low,  is  calm. 

"  Not  I,"  he  says.  "  1*11  swear  it  to  you  if  you  will, 
though  my  word  is  as  good  as  my  bond.  Why,  you  silly 
baby,  do  you  think  if  I  did  entertain  such  a  heresy  that  I 
should  have  had  the  pluck  to  say  it?'* 

This  appears  to  be  an  excellent  bit  of  reasoning  and  very 
convincing.  The  Duchess  smiles,  and  earth  grows  bright 
again.  She  even  draws  a  little  nearer  to  him,  as  if  about 
to  speak,  and  then,  as  if  overcome  by  a  little  access  of  shy- 
ness, stops  short,  and  taking  hold  of  one  of  the  buttons  of 
his  coat  between  a  slender  finger  and  thumb  twists  it  round 
and  round  again  without  any  apparent  reason. 

**  Well?"  questions  Denis,  stifling  a  sigh.  It  is  very 
hard  for  any  one,  under  an  anchorite,  to  have  the  chosen 
of  his  heart  so  very  close  to  him  and  feel  that  he  mustn't 
encourage  her  to  come  closer  still.     *'Wel]f" 

"  Denis,  tell  me  this,"  with  the  sweetest  blush  imagin- 
able. *'  Eeally,  now  mind — honestly,  do  you  think  mo 
pretty?" 

"It  is  too  poor  a  word!"  says  the  miserable  Denis,  so 
far  forgetting  the  stern  r61e  allotted  to  him  as  to  take  the 


THE    DUCHESS.  53 

little  thin  fingers  from  the  long-suffering  button  and  press 
them  to  his  lips.  "  If  yon  will  say  '  lovely  '  I  can  answer 
you.'' 

"  Oh,  now!"  with  a  little  pleased  laugh,  "  that  is  going 
too  far.  They  tell  me  my  mother  was  beautiful,  but  that 
I  do  not  resemble  her  much;  that  1  am  like  dad's  people. 
Like,''  thoughtfully,  "  your  people.  You,  perhaps?  How 
strange  that  would  be!    Am  I  like  your" 

"I  dare  say  I  have  frequently  flattered  myself,"  says 
Denis,  laughing.  "  We  all  do  it;  but  I  think  I  can  hon- 
estly say  never  to  that  extent.** 

'*  Well,"  persists  the  Duchess,  positively,  "  now  that  it 
has  occurred  to  me,  I  am.  sure  I  reminded  myself  of  some- 
body this  morning  when  I  was  doing  my  hair  before  the 
glass.  It  must  have  been  you.  Come  over  here,**  slip- 
ping her  hand  iuto  his  and  drawing  him  to  where  a  deep 
pool  lies  basking  drowsily  in  the  sunshine,  encompassed  by 
ferns  and  mosses. 

Over  this  she  bends,  scrutinizing  the  faint,  imperfect  re- 
flection of  her  charms  it  throws  up  to  her.  Delicate, 
vague,  unsatisfactory  it  is,  yet  sweet  withal.  Denis, 
standing  behind  her  and  gazing  over  her  shoulder,  can  see 
the  quivering  image  that  so  maligns  her  pure  and  perfect 
beauty,  and  turns  with  impatience  to  the  living  original 
beside  him.  She  is  still  absorbed  in  tracing  a  likeness  that 
does  not  exist,  and  a  sudden  desire  to  play  upon  her  an  old 
school-boy  trick,  and  so  disturb  her  thoughts,  takes  posses- 
sion of  him. 

Passing  his  hands  round  her  waist  from  the  back  he 
pushes  her  well  over  the  brink  of  the  pool,  holding  her 


4^  THE    DUCHESS. 

thus  for  an  instiuit  and  then  drawing  her  back  to  terrn 
firma. 

**  There!  only  for  me  you  would  have  been  in,'*  he  saye 
Taiugloriously. 

*'  Oh,  Denis!*'  cries  she,  genuinely  startled.  Then  she 
laughs,  aud  with  his  arms  still  eucircliiig  her  looks  back  at 
him  over  her  shoulder  with  parted  lips  and  brightened 
eyes.  Her  attitude  brings  her  head  almost  to  his  shoulder. 
She  was  never  yet  so  near  to  his  heart.  Was  she  ever  yet 
so  lovely?  His  pulses  are  beginning  to  beat  madly,  hia 
eyes  grow  warm.     The  laugh  is  still  fresh  upon  her  lips. 

"  My  love,  whose  lips  are  softer  far 
Than  droAvsy  poppy  petals  are. 
And  sweeter  tlian  the  violet." 

But  the  smile  has  died  from  his.  There  is  a  quick,  irre- 
pressible movement.  He  bends  over  her — nearer — nearer 
still;  and  then  he  loosens  his  hold  of  her  and  stands  back, 
a  frown  upon  his  brow,  his  face  a  little  pale. 

"Are  you  frightened?"  asks  she,  lightly.  "Did  you 
think  I  was  really  going  to  fall  in?  Ha!  Did  punish- 
ment then  overtake  you?  But  you  should  know  that  I  am 
sure-footed  as  a  goat;  that  I  seldom  catch  myself  tripping.  *' 

She  is  evidently  puzzled  a  good  deal  by  the  change  in 
his  manner,  which  has  gone  from  *'  grave  to  gay,  from 
lively  to  severe  *'  without  a  second's  warning,  and  would 
perhaps  have  subjected  him  to  a  rather  embarrassing 
cross-examination,  but  that  at  this  moment  the  appearance 
of  a  woman  at  the  lower  end  of  the  path  attracts  theii 
attention. 


THR    DUCHESS. 


CHAPTER  Vm. 

"  To  mortal  men  great  loads  allotted  be, 
But  of  all  packs  no  pack  like  poverty." 

She  is  a  woman,  withered,  and  slightly  bent,  and 
wretchedly  dressed,  as  are  all  poor  Irish  peasants.  Her 
petticoat,  made  of  a  thick  blue  flannel,  is  short,  and 
patched  liberally  here  and  there.  No  stockings  cover  her 
legs,  no  boots  her  feet,  which,  though  wonderfully  small, 
are  hard  as  the  path  itself  and  roughened  by  work  and  ex- 
posure. An  old  jacket,  worn  at  the  elbows  and  very 
much  the  worse  for  wear,  covers  her  body,  and  over  her 
shoulders  a  dingy  little  red  and  black  shawl  is  thrown. 

Clothing  enough  certainly  for  a  hot  day  in  July,  but 
alas!  terribly  insufficient  for  the  frosts  and  snows  of  win- 
ter; and  when  they  come  there  will  be  nothing  extra  to 
cover  that  poor,  frail  body.  Poverty  has  no  diversity  of 
costumes  wherewith  to  meet  the  exigencies  of  each  coming 
season. 

Seeing  Norah,  the  woman  quickened  her  footsteps, 
already  marvelously  agile  for  a  \;\oman  well  past  fifty. 

"Ah!  Biddy,  is  that  you?"  says  Norah,  asking  the 
Buperfluous  but  kindly  question  with  a  smile. 

*'  Good-morning,  your  honor,  my  lady,'""  returns  the 
woman,  this  being  a  very  usual  greeting  in  the  South  of 
Ireland  to  those  known  to  be  of  ''dacent  blood."  There 
is  no  such  ardent  admirer  of  aristocracy  as  the  Irish  peas- 


ffO  THE   DUCHESS. 

aiit.     "  Are  yoa  in  a  hurry,  miss?    Might  I  have  a  word 
witl  ye.  Miss  Norah?*' 

'*  What  is  it,  now,  Biddy?"  asks  the  Duchess,  anxioug- 
\y.     "  Nothing  wrong  with  little  l^arry?" 

"  No,  miss,  glory  be  to  God,  he's  betther  an'  betther 
every  day.  But  tell  me,  alanua,  'tis  the  masther  I  want 
to  see.  Is  he  up  above?"  meaning  Ballyhiuch,  not 
heaven. 

"  I  left  him  there  about  half  an  hour  ago.  **  It  is  im- 
possible for  Denis,  who  is  standing  by,  not  to  become  con- 
scious that  she  has  indeed  found  time  in  his  society  to  run 
wonderfully  swift.  '*  What  do  yoa  want  from  him  now, 
Biddy?" 

"  Faix,  miss,  a  bit  of  a  sthick,  no  more.  I  thought  as 
how  he'd  give  me  wan  out  of  the  wood  beyant  to  keep  u]) 
the  house.  The  rafthers  is  givin*  way  like,  but  if  I  could 
get  somethin'  to  prop  'em  up  wid  they'd  hould  together  if 
only  for  a  year  itself.  One  o'  thim  young  threes,  miss, 
out  of  the  plantation  would  do.  The  masther,  God  bless 
him!  is  good  to  all,  an*  if  ye  think,  miss,  he'd  give  it — " 

"  1  know  he  will.  Hurry  up,  Biddy,  because  he  may  be 
going  out.  By  the  bye,"  detaining  her,  "  how's  Dan? 
When  did  you  hear  from  him?" 

"  Sure  that  was  partly  what  was  bringin*  me  up  to  the 
house.  But,'*  shyly,  "  when  I  saw  ye  wid  the  gintle- 
man,**  with  a  sly  glance  at  Denis.  **  Anyhow,  miss,  'twas 
this  mornin*  a  letter  came.  I've  got  it  here  wid  me,"  pull- 
ing it  out  of  her  bosom.     "  May  be  ye'd  like  to  read  it?" 

"Of  coarse  I  should,"  says  the  Duchess,  heartily. 
"  Dear  me,  what  a  eood  boy  he  always  was  I*' 


THE    nrCH'ESS.  6? 

*'  Thrue  for  ye,  miss/'  intensely  gratified.  "  God  blesa 
ye!  Ye  have  the  good  word  always  for  rich  an' poor. 
D'ye  see,  alanna,''  pointing  to  the  letter  with  ungovernable 
pride,  "  'tis  all  the  way  from  Chany  it  has  come.  Glory 
be  to  the  Blessed  Mother  I  but  isn't  it  a  sight  of  the  world 
he  is  seein',  an'  him  the  biggest  blackguard  whin  he  was 
at  home!  Isn't  it  wonderful.  Miss  Norah,  now?  A  spal- 
peen that  I  was  forever  leatherin',  he  was  sich  a  divil  all 
out,  wid  his  pranks  an'  his  tricks,  savin'  your  presence, 
miss.  Even  Father  Jerry  himself  wasn't  safe  from  him; 
an'  there  he  is  now  as  grand  as  the  best  of  'em,  servin' 
aboard  a  man-o'-war." 

"  Well,  why  shouldn't  he?"  says  Norah.  "  Where's 
the  sailor  that's  better  than  an  Irish  sailor?" 

"  Pegs,  an'  that's  thrue,  too,"  acknowledges  the  grati- 
fied mother.  *'  He  sint  me  a  three-pound  note,  miss, 
along  wid  the  letther.  There's  for  ye  now?  Faix,  yes! 
He'd  never  forget  his  old  mammy,  he  says.  D'ye  know. 
Miss  Norah,  I'm  dead  sorry  now  as  ever  I  bate  that  boy!" 

"  Don't,"  says  Norah,  laughing.  "  Perhaps  it  was 
those  beatings  that  has  made  him  the  burning,  shining 
light  he  now  is. " 

"'Tisn't,  darlin';  I  don't  believe  in  bastin'  nohow. 
When  ye're  married.  Miss  Norah,  never  bate  your  own 
gossoons." 

The  Duchess  laughs  again. 

"  I'll  remember,"  she  says,  moving  on  a  step  or  tfvo 
with  a  friendly  nod  as  farewell. 

"  Will  your  father  give  that  tree?"  asks  Deuis,  curious* 
iy,  when  they  are  out  of  hearing. 


58  TDK    inCHESS. 

"  Why,  yes.     Of  course." 

**  But  I  thought,  from  what  he  said,  that  he  was  rather 
indignant  with  the  people  round  here;  rather  inclined  to 
be  hard  on  them,  and — and  that.** 

The  Duchess  turns  upon  him  a  glance  filled  with  fine 
contempt. 

"  And  have  you  lived  with  dad  for  four  days  and  don*t 
you  know  him  yet?'*  she  says.  "  You  haven't  found  him 
out.  Why,  he  can't  say  '  No  '  to  one  of  them.  He  is  as 
good  as  a  father  to  them.  He  abuses  both  the  tenants  and 
laborers  from  morning  till  night  like  a  pickpocket,  but  he 
treats  them  like  a  friend.  Of  course  she'll  get  that  tree; 
and  if  the  men  are  all  employed  he  will  in  all  probability 
go  out  and  cut  it  down  for  her  himself.  '* 

"  I  see,"  says  Denis,  thoughtfully.  Then:  "  What  did 
she  want  her  '  stick '  for?" 

''  Did  not  you  hear?  To  prop  up  her  roof,  which  is 
falling  in.  She  does  not  demand  the  restoration  of  the 
roof,  as  you  may  notice,  but  simply  begs  a  prop  for  it. 
Dad  will  see  to  the  proper  mending  of  it  before  the  winter, 
no  doubt,  if — if  he  has  the  money;  but  there  are  so  many 
roofs  and  all  out  of  repair.  ** 

She  sighs. 

*'  How  you  take  things  to  heart!"  says  he,  looking  at 
her  with  some  speculation  in  his  gaze. 

"Oh!  these  poor  creatures,  what  they  suffer!'*  cries 
she,  suddenly,  with  a  little  touch  of  passion  in  her  tone. 
"  No  one  knows  it  save  those  who  live  amongst  them,  and 
they  not  always.  Why  should  I  not  take  it  to  heart?  Am 
I  not  flesh  and  blood  as  they  are?    Must  I  not  feel,  for 


THE    DUCHESS.  59 

them?  And  every  day,  every  hour,  one  is  compelled  t» 
take  them  to  heart.  Why,  only  last  winter  a  man  came 
to  dad — a  laborer — begging  for  work;  and  he  told  us  that 
the  cabin  in  which  he  lived  had  such  holes  in  the  roof  that 
the  rain  came  pattering  in  on  them  even  when  they  were 
in  bed,  he  and  his  wife  and  three  little  children.  Often, 
he  told  dad,  when  he  had  to  get  up  at  six  o'clock  on  a 
winter's  morning  to  go  to  his  work,  he  was  so  frozen  in 
bed  that  it  was  a  relief  to  him  to  get  out  of  it. " 

"  Good  heavens,  what  a  melancholy  story!"  says  De- 
laney,  perhaps  only  half  believing  it.  He  spent  little  of 
his  time  in  his  native  land. 

"  Why,  that  is  nothing.  Hear  the  rest  of  it.  First  one 
little  child  died.  Then  it  was  he  came  to  dad  beseeching 
him  to  give  him  any  cabin  he  could  and  work  on  Bally- 
hinch.  We  are  wretchedly  poor  ourselves,"  says  the 
Duchess,  tears  rising  to  her  eyes,  "  but  we  managed  the 
cabin  for  him;  a  miserable  little  hole,  comfortless  enough, 
but  at  all  events  the  rain  could  not  come  into  it.  He  came 
and  took  possession,  but  a  week  after  his  wife  died — died 
from  exposure  and  cold  in  that  other  dreadful  house!" 

"  But  the  owner  of  that  other  house — what  of  him? 
Did  he  escape  scot  free?"  asks  Denis,  with  some  indigna- 
tion. "  What  right  has  any  landlord  to  give  his  laborer 
such  a  miserable  hut  to  live  in?  Call  such  a  fellow  as  that 
a  gentleman?'' 

"I  didn't,"  reasons  the  Duchess,  mildly.  "I  didn't 
call  him  anything;  and  it  wasn't  a  landlord  either — it 
wasn't  a  gentleman — it  was  a  farmer.  The  farmers  are 
always  the  worst.      No  landlord   would  have  treated  a 


(JO  THE    DUCHESS. 

laborer  bo,  at  least  not  one  that  I  know  of.  You  think 
this  a  solita-y  instance,  but  iudeed  they  are  always  so  poor 
and  so  patient  that  my  heart  bleeds  for  them;  and  nothing 
is  done  for  them — nothing.     If  I  was  Queen  Victoria — " 

"  What  a  little  rebel  you  arel" 

"  I  am  not,  indeed.  You  mistake  me.  I  quite  hate 
and  detest  all  those  wicked  men  who  incite  the  people  to 
rebellion  and  to  murder.  I  heartily  condemn  all  these 
Leagues  and  this  iniquitous  '  Plan  of  Campaign/  which 
will  help  only  to  pauperize  the  already  moneyless  nation. 
Indeed,'*  looking  at  him  with  large  earnest  eyes,  "  I  think 
of  nothing,  I  dwell  on  nothing,  but  only  how  best  to  im- 
prove the  miserable  condition  of  the  laborers  and  their 
wives.  ** 

"  They  do  seem  in  want  of  help,  I  must  say;  but — ** 

"  "Was  there  ever  so  mild,  so  cheerful,  so  gracious  a  peo- 
ple? Always  a  smile  :for  one  and  a  civil  word!  A  gentle, 
loving,  domesticated  people,  who  want  so  little,  so  little, 
so  little  to  make  them  happy.  Day  after  day  they  toil, 
and  what  are  the  wages?  One  shilling  and  sixpence  a  day, 
nine  shillings  a  week.  And  out  of  that  they  must  clothe 
and  feed  wife  and  children,  sometimes  so  many  children! 
And  rent  besides,  because  those  laborers  who  get  a  house 
and  a  quarter  of  an  acre  of  ground  free  only  get  six  shil- 
lings a  week!  To  me  it  is  a  marvelous  thing  how  all  this 
IS  done.  Nine  shillings  a  week!  What  a  little  sum,  and 
yet  all  you  English  people  (ah!  Denis,  I  am  afraid  you  are 
only  half  a  Paddy!)  accuse  these  poor  creatures  of  being 
thriftless,  careless,  extravagant!  Extravagant  on  nine 
shillings  a  week!" 


THE    DUCHESS.  6| 

"  I  don't  believe  I  ever  said  it,'*  says  Delaney,  pensive- 
ly, "  and  I  must  protest  against  being  Anglicized  in  this 
sort  of  way.  •" 

But  she  will  not  listen  to  him. 

"  They  never  save,  you  cry.  Save!  with  scarcely 
enough  pennies  to  keep  body  and  soul  together;  and  yet 
they  do,  poor  souls.  They  scrape  together  coin  after  coin 
until  they  have  enough  to  buy  their  pig,  and  then  it,  too, 
must  be  fed.'' 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  look  at  me  like  that,"  says 
Denis.  "  I  feel  as  if  I  should  like  to  cry.  It's  rather 
mean  of  you,  I  think,  to  bring  me  to  this  lonely  spot, 
where  I  am  beyond  succor,  and  then  ill-treat  me  as  you  are 
doing. " 

"Oh!  I  am  not  thinking  of  you,"  says  she,  scornfully. 
"  I  am  only  thinking  of  the  poor  around  me,  and  I  want 
to  make  you  and  every  one  think  of  them.  In  spite  of  all 
that  can  be  laid  to  their  charge  I  believe  them  to  be  the 
most  enduring,  the  most  long-sufPering  race  on  earth.  Do 
you  know  that  they  (I  am  talking  of  the  poorer  class,  the 
laborers,  the  large  class,  remember)  never  taste  meat?  It 
is  not  that  they  don't  have  it  often,  that  they  have  it  only 
perhaps  on  high  days  and  holidays — it  is  that  they  have  it 
never!  From  year's  end  to  year's  end  they  n«ver  see  it 
Yet  how  small  has  been  their  complaining!  To  me  it  all 
seems  dreadful.  I  do  not  wonder  at  this  hateful  agitation. 
I  am  only  surprised  that  they  have  borne  with  their  pov- 
erty so  long  without  open  expression  of  discontent.  Why, 
one  good  gown  that  a  womaii  would  buy  for  a  ball  would 
keep  an  entire  family  comfortable  for  a  year, " 


a  THK    DUCHESS. 

"  My  dear  child,  if  you  were  to  go  into  that!  Why, 
what  a  terrible  little  Communist  you  are!" 

"  Don't  call  me  names,"  says  she,  laughing,  though 
tears  are  not  far  from  her.  "  And,  indeed,  my  views  are 
not  so  sweeping  as  you  would  make  them  out  to  be.  1 
know  quite  well  that  the  ball  dresses  must  be  bought,  and 
that  the  poor  we  must  have  always  with  us.  But  it  sug- 
gests itself  to  me  that  they,  the  poor,  can  not  see  the  neces- 
sity for  it,  and  that  the  injustice  of  ifc,  alone,  must  strike 
them.  Why  should  not  they  be  the  ones  to  buy  ball 
dresses,  and  we  to  starve  and  endure,  if  only  for  awhile? 
Turn  about  would  seem  to  them,  I  dare  say,  only  the  most 
meager  fair  play. " 

"  They  are  not  so  miserable  as  you  picture  them.  You 
forget  they  are  a  happy-go-lucky  lot  if  they  are  anything, 
and  that  they  never  think. " 

"  So  you  believe.  I  don't.  And  at  all  events  they  are 
being  made  to  think  now  by  these  demagogues  who  are 
going  about  stirring  up  their  evil  passions.  I  am  always 
sorry  when  I  read  the  sneers  about  our  poor  people  in  the 
papers.  Crimes  indeed  are  being  committed — heinous, 
unpardonable  crimes;  but  let  them  rest  on  the  heads  of 
those  who  have  incited  these  foolish,  wild,  impetuous,  pas- 
sionate creatures  to  the  performance  of  them.  *' 

"  They  are,  at  all  events,  happy  in  having  found  an  ad- 
vocate as  impetuous  and  as  passionate  as  themselves.  May 
I  say  as  disloyal?'*  asks  Denis. 

"  Disloyal!  Oh!  you  do  not  understand  them  if  you 
okU  them  th^t," 


THE    DUCHESS.  63 

*'  I  confess  I  do — and  therefore  I  don't — which  thing  is 
an  enigma. " 

"I  have  always  said,  I  always  will  say,  that  they  are  at 
neart  a  very  loyal  race;  a  people  who  would  glory  in  rally- 
ing round  their  sovereign  if — just  a  little  civility  was  shown 
them.     If  their  queen — *' 
"Oh!  come  now,  Norah — " 

"  Well,  I  won't  then,''  smiHng  faintly.  "  I  don't  wish 
to  be  disloyal  in  any  way,  but  it  does  seem  such  a  pity  that 
so  little  courtesy  is  ever  shown  to  Ireland.  Every  now  and 
then  a  hand  might  be  held  out  to  it;  but  England  is 
favored,  and  Scotland  is  rich  in  its  sovereign's  love,  and 
Ireland  is  left  out  in  the  cold.  It  would  be  such  a  little 
thing  to  humor  them  now  and  again.  It  might  be  man- 
aged at  so  small  a  cost,  and  it  would,  I  firmly  believe, 
have  prevented  all  this  present  misery.  Besides,"  throw- 
ing up  her  pretty  head  with  a  little  proud  gesture,  "  if  I 
were  a  queen  I  should  think  it  my  duty  to  be  good  to  all 
my  subjects,  and  I  should  remember,  too,  how  many 
splendid  soldiers,  how  many  illustrious  statesmen,  had 
given  me  their  hearts,  and  arms,  and  brains,  out  of  this 
despised  land!" 

"  Well,  you  must  confess  they  have  given  room  for  con- 
tempt of  late. " 

"  They  are  an  impressionable  people,  and,  alas!  too 
easily  led;  but  if  the  right  people  had  led  them — how 
then?  Well,  never  mind!  Out  of  every  great  evil  some 
good  arises,  and  perhaps — who  knows? — the  very  poor 
will  at  last  gain  some  benefit  from  this  agitation." 
'*  It  will  not  help  their  cause  to  assist  in  maiming  inno* 


a  THE    DUCHESS. 

cent  cattle,  and  beating  or  tb rowing  tar  over  defenseleet 
girls,"  says  Denis,  witb  a  frown. 

'*  Everything  is  wrong  now,  I  know,"  gadly.  *'  J3ut  you 
;;onilemn  all  because  of  the  few.  These  peo2)le  round  here, 
how  patient,  how  cheerful  they  are,  and  how  deplorably 
poor  I  Oh  I  if  dad  and  I  were  rich  we  would  do  something 
for  them;  but,"  with  a  melancholy  little  nod,  "  we  haven't 
a  penny  between  us." 

"  Yet  this  seems  a  good  property,''  says  Denis,  looking 
round  him. 

"  I  dare  say;  but  there  is  nothing  to  work  it.  It 
enables  us  to  live,  no  more."  Here  she  laughs  involun- 
tarily. "  I'm  hardly  a  cheerful  companion,  am  I?"  she 
says,  with  a  swift,  sweet  glance  full  of  apology. 

"  The  best  I  know,  at  all  events,"  returns  Denis,  ear- 
nestly. 

Her  late  fervor  has  been  a  revelation  to  him.  The 
eager,  upturned  face,  the  impassioned  tone,  the  speaking 
eye,  have  given  him  a  new  insight  into  the  infinite  variety 
of  her  nature. 

"  Tell  me,  Norah,"  says  he,  presently,  moved  by  some 
impulse  he  could  not  have  explained,  "  were  you  ever — 
<.hat  is — did  any  one  ever  ask  3^ou  to  marry  him?" 

To  some  this  would  have  been  an  embarrassing  ques- 
tion, to  others  a  rather  impertinent  one.  To  the  Duchess 
it  is  a  question  pure  and  simple,  nothing  more. 

"Never!"  she  responds,  promptly.  ''And  I'm  just 
nineteen.  Isn't  it  disgraceful?"  There  is,  perhaps,  a 
touch  of  indignation  in  her  tone.  Why  should  she  have 
been  thus  sli^-hted  abov*  her  fellows?     "  And  there's  Lily 


THE    DUCHESS.  65 

French,  ghe  is  younger  than  I  am,  yet  there  she  is  in  India 
now/' throwing  out  her  hand  as  though  India  lies  in  the 
recess  of  the  near  bit  of  wood,  *'  with  a  husband  a  year 
old!'' 

Delaney  laughs. 

"  A  youthful  groom,"  says  he. 

"Oh!"  airily,  "you  know  what  I  mean.  But  as  for 
me!  Perhaps,  after  all,''  regarding  him  anxiously,  "I'm 
not  that  sort  of  girl,  eh?" 

"  What  sort  of  girl?" 

'*  Attractive,  for  example.  Do  you  think  it  likely— I 
mean — that  some  time  or  other  some  one  will  ask  me  to 
marry  him?" 

*'  I  think  it  probable,"  dryly. 

"Well,"  dejectedly,  "unless  it  is  the  butcher  or  the 
baker  or  the  candlestick-maker,  I  don't  see  who  else  it  can 
be  down  here. " 

"  Do  you  want  to  be  married?"  asks  he,  sharply,  a 
most  unwarrantable  feeling  of  anger  against  her  rising  in 
his  breast. 

"  I  certainly  don't  want  to  be  an  old  maid!"  naively. 
"  She's  a  very  poor  creature,  in  my  estimation.  I  don't 
believe  in  the  *  could-an-she-would  '  theory  at  all.  An 
old  maid,  to  my  mind,  is  a  person  whom  nobody  wanted. 
I  shouldn't  like  to  feel  so  abject  as  that.  Dad  says  I 
needn't  be  frightened,  because  it  isn't  in  the  breed,  and  I 
couldn't  catch  it.  There  never  was  an  old  maid  in  th© 
family,  he  Bays,  and  he  can  remember  down  to  his  great- 
aunts  and  a  whole  tribe  of  cousins,  from  a  first  to  a  thirtj«> 
first** 


B(j  THE    DUCHESS. 

*'  That  gives  a  man  experience,  I  must  say;  and  musk 
be  a  great  support  to  you. " 

"Yes,"  with  doubt;  "but  still  it  isn't  convincing. 
Every  crime  must  have  a  beginning,  and  I  feel  as  if  I  were 
going  to  commit  this  one;  as  if  I  were  going  to  be  the  old 
maid  of  the  Delaneys.  It's  a  real  grievance  in  my  case,  as 
I  sha'nH  ever  have  the  traditioual  nephews  and  nieces 
upon  whom  to  lavish  my  rejected  aifeccions.  That's  un- 
fair, ian't  it?  I  think  if  I  am  to  be  thus  degraded  Nature 
should  have  supplied  me  with  marrying  brothers  and  sis- 
ters." 

At  tliis  they  both  laugh,  though  Delaney's  mirth  is  de- 
cidedly half-hearted. 

'*'  At  Ventry,"  says  he,  slowly,  as  if  impelled  to  it 
against  his  will,  "  you  will  see  others  besides  the  butoher 
and  baker.     You  can  there  make  your  choice.'* 

"  Y'es,  when  I  go,"  doubtfully. 

"  And  you  will,  Norah?"  detaining  her  on  the  hall  door- 
steps as  they  are  now  about  to  re-enter  the  house. 

*'  Oh,  I  don't  know!  I  must  think  about  it,"  says  she, 
petulantly,  running  away  from  him. 


CHAPTEE   IX. 

"  The  frank  young  smile, 
And  the  red  young  mouth,  and  the  hair's  young  gold." 

Whether  she  does  or  not  is  another  matter.  One 
would  say  "  not  "  for  choice,  taking  note  of  the  extremely 
insouciant  expression  that  marks  her  face.     But  if  she  has 


THE    DUCHESS.  67 

disdained  to  give  the  matter  thought,  not  so  the  squire. 
Long  and  deep  have  been  his  breedings,  and  as  a  result  of 
them  he  pounces  upon  her  toward  the  evening,  and  draw- 
ing her  into  the  dining-room  proceeds  to  unburden  his 
mind. 

"  Noddlekins,  I've  been  thinking,'^  begins  he,  solemn- 
ly, seating  himself  gingerly  on  the  arm  of  an  exceedingly 
ancient  chair. 

"  No!"  exclaims  his  daughter,  with  irreverent  meaning. 

"  I  have — about  this  visit,  and  I  think  you  ought  to  go. 
I  do  indeed,  my  dear,"  seeing  disapprobation  in  her 
glance.  "  It  is  only  right  we  should  consider  your  future 
and  cease  to  be  selfish.  I  know  it  will  be  a  tug  for  us  both 
to  part;  but  your  aunt^s  an  influential  woman,  and  she 
can  bring  you  out  and  show  you  off  a  bit;  and  I  dare  say 
marry  yon  well.  Denis  seems  to  think,"  slowly,  "  that 
you  ought  to  marry  a  rich  man. " 

"  Does  he,  indeed?^'  says  the  Duchess,  with  a  tilt  of 
her  lovely  chin,  expressive  of  anger.  "  I  wonder  you 
would  let  him  sjjeak  like  that,  dad.  And — and  I  sha^'n't 
go,  either.'    I  can't  bear  strangers.'' 

"  Tut!     Yon  would  get  used  to  them  in  no  time." 

"  I  dare  say;  by  the  time  I  was  half  dead  from  studying 
them.  Their  ways  would  not  be  my  ways,  and  if  I 
thought  them  tiresome  they  would  probably  think  me  odd; 
and — and  if  I  were  to  find  anyone  laughing  at  me  " — ^ 
tears  rising  to  her  eyes — "  I  should  kill  them." 

"  And  quite  right,  too,"  says  the  squire,  pugnaciously, 
giving  her  the  warmest  support.  "I'd  like  to  see  the  one 
that  would  dare  do  it.     Just  send  him  to  me,  that's  all!" 


G8  THE    DUCHESS. 

"  It  wouldn't  be  a  he/*  says  the  Duchess,  with  a  pro- 
phetic sigh.     "  It  would  be  a  she.'* 

**  Nonsense,  my  sweetheart,  I'd  buck  you  against  the  lot 
of  *eni.  Don't  you  be  down-hearted.  Norah,"  turning 
to  her  with  sudden  anxiety,  *'  can  you  dance?" 

"  Like  an  angel  I"  declares  the  Duchess,  modestly, 
springing  to  her  feet.  "  Do  you  think  there  will  be  dan- 
cing there,  dad?  I'm  all  right  so  far,  because  Otho  used  to 
waltz  with  me  all  last  winter,  every  afternoon  that  was 
wet,  in  the  big  hall;  don't  you  remember?  Yes,  I  can 
dance,  I  know!" 

*'  You  inherit  it,"  says  the  squire,  standing  up  himself, 
and  beaming  with  pleasurable  remembrance.  "  I  was  a 
beautiful  dancer  myself  in  my  own  time.  There  wasn't 
one  in  the  county  could  hold  a  caudle  to  me.  Not  a  ball 
or  a  rout  I  wasn't  at  this  side  of  Cork,  to  say  nothing  of  a 
run  up  to  Dublin  now  and  then,  to  show  myself  at  the 
levees  and  that.  Sometimes  I'd  be  up  every  night  for  a 
whole  month  at  a  stretch,  dancing  till  morning  peeped  in 
at  us;  and  after  that  came  the  drive  home  with  one's 
favorite  partner  through  the  lovely  dawn.  And  then  up 
again  betimes,  and  away  with  the  hoimds  may  be,  and 
back  with  a  rush  to  dress  once  more  to  meet  the  Macgilli- 
cuddy  girls  at  a  ball  somewhere.  Such  laughing,  such 
tearing  as  there  was,  and  now  and  again  a  duel  thrown  in, 
just  to  give  a  fillip  to  it.  Oh!  'tis  those  were  the  devil's 
own  times!"  says  the  squire,  now  bursting  with  joy  over 
his  recollections,  and  altogether  forgetful  of  his  manners. 
The  Duchess  is  evidently  bent  on  encouraging  him,  to 
quite  a  shameful  extent. 


THE    DUCHESS.  69 

**  Oh!  dad,  dad!'*  says  she,  shaking  a  slender  forefioger 
nthim.  "I  doubt  you  were  a  regular  Mohawk  in  your 
day;  a  right  down  rollicking  blade!" 

"  Only  for  a  year  or  two,  my  love,  no  more — no  more,  I 
assure  you,''  says  the  squire,  impressively.  "  Then  I  met 
your  mother  at  a  ball  at  the  MeKenzies'  and  fell  in  love 
with  her,  and  we  were  married  in  a  fortnight.  Ah!  'twas 
she  was  the  lovely  woman!" 

*'  That  goes  without  saying,"  remarks  her  grace, 
saucily,  holding  out  her  skirts  with  both  hands  and  dan- 
cing up  to  an  old-fasliioned  mirror  that  laughs  back  at  her 
in  answer  to  her  own  glance.  "  Via  I'effci,"  she  says, 
making  a  charming  little  moue  at  her  own  image,  whilst 
slowly  tripping  it  to  and  fro  before  the  glass. 

"  Come,  dad,"  she  cries,  casting  a  glance  back  at  him, 
*'  you  can't  have  forgotten  it  all  yet.  Let's  have  '  up  the 
middle  and  down  again,'  if  only  to  warm  our  blood." 

She  places  her  arms  akimbo  and  skips  up  to  him,  a  most 
entrancing  invitation  in  her  eyes.  The  squire  is  not  proof 
against  it.  He  instantly  takes  fire  and  in  another  moment 
he,  too,  is  footing  it  gallantly  with  might  and  main  up 
and  down  the  well  waxed  floor.  Indeed,  both  father  and 
daughter  are  in  the  middle  of  a  very  finished  performance 
when  Denis  opens  the  door  and  walks  in,  to  find  Norah 
flushed,  panting,  laughing,  altogether  lovely,  and  the 
squire  as  the  boy  he  really  is  at  heart. 

*'  Wait  a  moment,  my  dear  fellow;  we  have  just  one 
figure  more,"  cries  he,  unwilling  to  cut  short  his  dance. 
*'  Oh,  No  rah,  you  rogue,  how  fast  3'ou  trip  it!  You'll  be 
the  death  of  your  dad.     Now  for  a  wind-up.     There? 


70  THE    DUCHESSo 

There's  for  you!  Did  you  ever  see  anything  that  could 
beat  that,  Denis?  How  does  she  dance,  eh?"  pointing  to 
Norah  with  fatherly  pride.  "  Will  that  do  for  madanie, 
eh?" 

"Nonsense,  dad,"  laughing.  *'But  I  can  assure  you, 
sir,''  dropping  a  gay  little  courtesy  to  Denis,  "  that  I  can 
dance  you  something  better  than  a  country  dance.  A 
waltz,  now,  an  you  wish  it;  or  oven  a  quadrille,  at  a  pitch, 
though  I  confess  I  care  not  for  such  foolish  measures." 

**You  will  come  to  Ventry  then?"  cries  the  young 
man,  heedless  of  all  save  that  hoije.  "  You  have  made 
up  your  mind  to  come  back  with  me." 

"  OhI  not  so  fast  as  that,"  says  she,  shrugging  her 
shoulders.  *'  I  must  get —  There  are  things  that  must 
be  seen  to  before  I  can  go;  if  " — with  a  hesitation  cruelly 
prolonged — "  go  I  do. " 

"  Do  not  throw  another  doubt  on  it.  Come  now,  give 
me  your  word  you  will  accept  my  mother's  invitation." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  so,"  sighing. 

"And  when?  'Now/'  turning  to  his  uncle,  "that  I 
have  obtained  her  consent,  I  think  I  had  better  run  home 
and  lift  the  mother  out  of  her  Slough  of  Despond.  Then 
I  can  come  back  again  for  Norah.  When,  Norah?  In  a 
week?" 

"  Three  weeks.     Not  a  minute  sooner." 

"  That  will  take  us  well  into  August.  So  be  it,  then. 
Let  us  say  on  the  fifteenth  I  shall  return  here  for  you,  and 
you  will  bo  ready  then  to  start  with  me  for  Ventry  on  the 
following  day. " 

"As  you  will,"  says  the  Duchess,  in  a  resigned  tone. 


THE    DUCHESS.  71 

**  If  you  both  think  it  necessary  that  I  should  see  the 
world,  I  succumb  to  superior  force.  Though  how,"  look- 
ing with  growing  melancholy  at  her  father,  "  you  are  ever 
going  to  get  on  without  me  is  a  dark  mystery.  *' 

"  I  sha'n^t  get  on,  my  love,^'  says  the  squire,  prophetic 
ally.  "  Don't  hope  for  it.  I  shall  remain  where  I  am— 
stock  still — until  you  come  back  to  mel" 


CHAPTER  X, 
"And  truth  and  hope  are  sunlight  in  your  eyes." 

Time,  that  runs  ever  with  a  swift  foot  and  light,  such 
hours  as  we  are  haj^piest,  seems  to  the  Duchess  to  crawl 
with  a  slow  and  sullen  step  for  the  next  three  weeks.  This 
she  will  not  acknowledge,  even  to  herself;  yet  never  in  all 
her  young  life  did  the  days  hang  so  heavily  upon  her 
hands;  never  did  the  daily  accustomed  tasks  show  them- 
selves so  devoid  of  interest.  But  all  things  end,  and  tan- 
talizing Time  is  at  last  conquered,  and  here  dawns  the  day 
that  brings  Denis  back  again  to  Ballyhinch. 

The  Duchess,  gowned  in  a  charming  cambric  of  palest 
pink,  a  quite  new  gown,  selected  from  amongst  those  she 
had  been  making  for  her  visit  to  Mme.  Delaney,  is  looking 
very  sweet,  very  lovely,  if  a  little  paler  than  usual.  There 
is  a  touch  of  restlessness  about  her  all  the  morning,  that 
she  strives,  but  vainly,  to  conceal,  and  which  betrays  itself 
most  frequently  in  a  wild  desire  to  prove  that  the  clocks 
are  wrong. 

What  ails  them?    Why  don't  they  go  fasterP    Has  any 


T2  THE    DUCHESST 

one  been  meddling  with  them?  She  is  growing  positively 
care-worn  in  expression  by  the  time  the  ancient  eight-day 
clock  in  the  hall  strikes  two,  proclaiming  the  hour  when 
he  should  arrive. 

Suppose  he  isn't  coming  at  all — that  something  has  kept 
him  at  home?  Her  large  e^'es  grow  pathetic,  her  mouth 
takes  a  mournful  curve.  Melancholy  marks  her  for  its 
own.  But  what  is  this?  Wheels!  Surely  the  sound  of 
•wheels!  Instantly,  as  if  by  magic,  the  cloud  is  swept  from 
her  face;  a  brilliant  color  springs  into  her  cheek,  her  eyes 
grow  bright,  her  stej)  buoyant.  Down  the  hall  like  a 
small  whirlwind  she  rushes,  j)ulls  open  the  door,  races 
down  the  steps,  to  find  herself  face  to  face  with  him. 

Yes,  there  he  is,  before  her.  For  a  moment  she  hesi- 
tates. There  might  jDcrhaps  be  hidden  down  somewhere 
in  her  mind  the  memory  of  a  dark  saying  aneut  the  im- 
propriety of  embracing  young  men  as  a  general  rule,  but 
if  so  it  escapes  her  now.  Her  lips  part  in  a  lovely  smile, 
and  flinging  everything  to  the  winds,  forgetful  indeed  of 
everything  save  the  one  dear  fact  that  he  has  come  back 
again  to  fill  her  days  with  gladness,  she  throws  her  arms 
around  his  neck  and  presses  her  velvet  cheek  to  his. 

"  You've  come!*'  she  says,  crying  aloud  this  self-evi' 
dent  delightful  truth  as  though  the  very  utterance  of  it  is 
a  joy  to  her.  "Oh!  come  in.  Come  quickly.  Dad  will 
be  just  as  pleased  as  I  am.  How  nice  you  look!''  draw- 
ing back  from  him,  though  with  her  hands  still  clasped  in 
his,  the  better  to  see  him.  "  Those  are  new  clothes, 
aren't  they,  you  extravagant  boy?  Well,  so  are  mine! 
How  do  you  like  this  dress?    Do  I  look  well  in  it?    Ohl 


THE    DUCHESS.  73 

IVe  been  so  lonely  without  you.  Oh,  dear!"  with  a  little 
sigh  of  utter  content,  and  a  loving  smile.  "  How  good  it 
is  to  see  you  again!" 

The  openness  of  her  heartfelt  joy,  the  innocence  of  her 
lovely  eyes,  the  almost  childish  fervor  of  her  manner,  all 
betray  the  fact  that  if  she  does  love  him  it  is  a  love  of 
which  she  herself  is  ignorant.  He  is  her  cousin,  her  dear 
friend,  her  "  chum,''  as  it  were;  but  as  a  lover  she  had 
not  once  thought  of  him.  To  Denis  this  eager  greeting, 
devoid  as  it  is  of  shyness,  or  consciousness  of  any  sort, 
seems  to  speak  only  of  a  heart  quite  free.  To  that  greet- 
ing he  had  made  no  answer.  It  seems  to  him  as  though 
speech  is  beyond  him.  After  that  first  wild  thrill  of  pas- 
sionate delight  that  had  been  his  when  his  arm  closed 
round  her  there  had  come  a  sense  of  despair  sufficiently 
keen  to  render  him  silent.  It  is  with  a  pale,  unsmiling 
face  he  now  follows  her  into  the  hall. 

"  Why,''  says  she,  stopping  short  and  gazing  at  him, 
*'  I  don't  believe  you  are  a  bit  glad  to  see  me.  How  pale, 
how  miserable  you  look!  Is  it  possible,"  changing  color, 
"  that  you  are  sorry  to  come  back?" 

*'  No.  That  would  be  of  all  things  the  least  possible," 
replied  he,  making  an  effort  to  smile.  "  But — I  have  got 
a  headache — that  is  all." 

"  And  bad  enough,  too,"  says  she,  shaking  her  head 
sympathetically.  **  Go  into  the  study;  you  will  find  dad 
there;  and  I  will  go  and  get  you  something  after  your 
journey.  By  and  by,  if  your  head  is  better,  I'll  take  you 
for  a  nice  cool  walk,  and  that  will  make  you  all  right 
again." 


74  THE    DUCHESS. 

She  runs  lightly  away,  and  Denis,  opening  the  studj 
door,  is  soon  receiving  a  hearty  welcome  from  his  uncle. 

"I've  something  to  tell  you,"  says  the  squire,  about 
half  an  hour  later,  leaning  forward  and  assuming  an  air  of 
deepest  mystery.  "  Such  a  thing  as  has  happened  since 
last  you  were  here;  just  about  a  week  after  you  left.  'Tis 
about  the  Duchess.** 

*'  Yes?**  says  Dem's,  regarding  him  fixedly. 

**  She*s  had  a  Proposal!'*  says  the  squire,  making  the 
capital  quite  enormous.  "  Think  of  that  now!  And  the 
child  she  is!'* 

"  Well?'*  says  Denis,  a  terrible  tightening  at  his  heart 
warning  him  that  he  had  better  brace  himself  to  receive 
the  deadly  news  he  anticipates,  lest  he  let  his  secret  escape 
him.  He  feels  the  blood  is  forsaking  his  face;  so,  getting 
up  from  his  seat  with  what  carelessness  he  can  muster,  he 
goes  over  to  the  window  and  stands  there  gazing  with  un- 
seeing eyes  upon  her  garden  beneath.     "  Who  is  it?**  he 


"  Lord  Kilgarriff !  No  less.  They've  been  a  good  deal 
together  all  their  lives  up  to  this,  and  he  evidently  thought 
it  a  desirable  thing  to  make  such  arrangements  as  would 
keep  them  together  for  the  remainder  of  them,  and  faith  I 
don*t  wonder  at  it,**  says  the  squire,  mildly.  "It's  the 
biggest  grain  of  sense  he  ever  showed.  ** 

*'  It  will  be  an  excellent  match,**  says  Delaney  in  rather 
a  stifled  tone. 

"  That's  what  I'm  saying.  The  best  match  he's  evei 
likely  to  get " 


THE    duchess".  75 

**  Well — and  for  her  too — ia  a  more  worldly  point  of 
view.** 

'*  I  dare  say  it  would.  Yes,  no  doubt  it  would,**  re- 
turns the  squire,  thoughtfully,  scraping  his  chin  with  his 
hand  in  a  meditative  way. 

"It  would!*'  Denis  wheels  round  from  the  window. 
*'  Why,  what  does  that  mean?  Are  you  going  to  tell  me 
that  she  has — has — ** 

"Refused  him!  That's  Just  it!'*  says  the  squire,  tran- 
quilly. '*  He  was  well  enough  as  a  friend,  it  appears;  but 
as  anything  closer — no,  thank  you!  She  said  all  that  in 
her  own  little  pretty  way,  of  course.  She'd  be  sure  to  let 
even  her  worst  enemy  (if  she  could  have  one,  bless  her!) 
down  easy.  So  it's  off.  I  pitied  the  poor  boy  with  all  my 
heart;  but  he  is  of  that  stuff  wherein  wounds  cure  quick- 
ly. Well,  that's  my  story.  A  good  one,  eh?  Oh!  by  the 
bye,  how  d'ye  think  that  bay  colt  sold?  I  took  him  to — ** 
"  But,  my  dear  sir — my  dear  uncle — do  you  know  what 
she  has  refused?"  says  Denis,  able  to  discuss  the  matter 
now  she  has  refused  it.  "  Four  thousand  a  year  and  a 
title !  The  money  is  small  to  keep  up  a  title,  certainly; 
but  still  four  thousand  a  year  is  something.*' 

*'  Well,  yes.  It  sounds  a  pity,  doesn't  it?"  says  the 
squire,  knocking  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe  in  a  lazy  but 
careful  fashion.  "  But  if  she  didn't  like  him — why,  that's 
all  about  it,  you  see.  *' 

"But  did  you  say  nothing  to— to  influence  her — to  in- 
duce her  to  think  of  it?"  asks  Delaney,  studying  his  uncle 
as  though  he  were  a  new  specimen — which  perhaps  he  is. 
*'  Divil  a  word  I"  stolidly.     Then,  after  a  reflective  draw 


76  THE    DUCHE88. 

or  two  from  the  pipe:  *'  What  for?  To  indue©  her  to 
marry  a  man  for  whom  ahe  doesn't  care  two  straws? 
Surely  that  would  be  a  queer  thing  to  do.  No,  no,  my 
lad;  bad  work  comes  of  that  always,  I'm  young  enough 
still  to  believe  in  that  blessing  called  love;  and  old  enough, 
too,  for  the  matter  of  that.  For  with  age  comes  wisdom, 
or  at  all  events  it  should.  My  little  Duchess  shall  marry 
just  whom  she  pleases,  always  provided  he  is  a  gentleman 
in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  word;  or  she  sha'n't  marry  at 
all,  just  as  she  pleases,  too." 

"But  such  a  chance  to  fling  away,"  persists  Denis, 
curious  now  to  read  the  other's  mind  on  this  subject 
thoroughly. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  such  a  fellow?  What  ails  the  boy?" 
says  the  squire,  regarding  him  with  a  humorous  and  rather 
puzzled  eye.  "  Why,  where  is  the  good  of  forty  thousand 
a  year  if  you  hate  the  very  bread  you  break  with  the 
owner  of  it?  D'ye  think  I'd  see  the  h'ght  die  out  of  her 
pretty  eyes  and  her  lips  grow  smileless,  all  for  the  sake  of 
making  her  a  fine  madame?  Would  I  watch  for  her  steps 
to  become  less  joyous  and  listen  in  vain  for  her  laughter? 
I  tell  you  no,  man,  not  for  all  the  money  this  world  holds! 
And  besides,  what  would  it  all  do  for  her,  my  bonnie  bird? 
Shall  I  tell  you?  It  would  kill  her;  and  that  would  kill 
mel  Tut,"  says  the  squire,  contemptuously,  throwing 
himself  back  in  his  chair,  and  putting  his  pipe  once  more 
between  his  lips,  "  what  folly  it  all  is!" 

Denis,  coming  over  from  the  window,  lays  his  hand 
lightly  on  his  shoulder.  The  touch,  light  as  it  is,  is  in  a 
sense  a  caress,  and  for  a  moment  the  two  men  look  at  eacli 


THE    DUCHESS.  77 

other  steadily,  the  squire  with  a  gentle  wonderment  but  a 
great  friendliness  in  his  handsome  eyes. 

"  Well,  I  take  great  pride  in  the  thought  that  I  am  your 
nephew,''  says  Denis,  simply. 


CHAPTER  XL 

"Oh,  how  the  spring  of  love  resembleth 
The  uncertain  glory  of  an  April  dayl" 

It  is  drawing  toward  evening,  and  though  the  sun  still 
rides  triumphant  in  the  heavens  long  shadows  are  stretch- 
ing themselves  here  and  there,  and  the  voices  of  the  birds 
are  growing  faint  and  ever  fainter.  A  little  wind  has 
arisen  that  the  languid  morning  had  not  known,  and  now 
sighs  through  the  trees  and  rustles  the  leaves  as  it  rushes 
through  them.  There  is  a  great  calm  everywhere,  and  a 
sense  of  tranquillity,  vague  but  strong,  that  has  evidently 
communicated  itself  to  the  breasts  of  the  two  now  walking 
silently  through  the  scented  wood. 

Side  by  side  they  move,  but  with  closed  lips,  the  first 
mild  attempts  at  conversation  having  fallen  away  from 
them  beneath  the  languorous  influence  of  the  dying  noon. 
All  the  sweet  wild  life  of  nature  seems  indeed  to  be  drop- 
ping asleep,  and  scarcely  a  sound  disturbs  the  mystical 
^uiet  of  the  early  evening. 

"  Only  the  pattering  aspen 

Made  a  sound  of  growing  rain. 
That  fell  ever  faster  and  faster, 
Then  faltered  to  silence  again." 


78  THE    DUCHESS. 

The  entrance  into  a  broad  bit  of  green  open,  across  which 
the  tremulous  sunbeams  are  btill  wandering,  restores  the 
Duchess  to  a  desire  for  speech — a  desire  never  far  from  her. 

"  I  wonder  how  I  shall  feel  this  time  to-morrow?"  she 
Bays,  with  a  little  nervous  laugh  that  shows  where  her 
thoughts  have  been  roaming.  *'  We  shall  be  at  the  Cas- 
tle then,  eh?'' 

"  Yes.  About  five  or  five-fifteen.  Did  you  get  my 
mother's  last  letter?" 

"  I  had  one  this  morning.  Such  a  kind  letter;  with  so 
many  sweet  messages  in  it  for  dad  that  it  took  my  heart 
captive.  As  for  dad,  it  has  quite  turned  his  head.  There 
is  no  managing  him  ever  since.  Do  you  know,"  glancing 
at  him,  "  that  I  am  going  to  stay  with  you  for  a  very  long 
visit?  Months!  Well,  instead  of  dad's  lamenting  his  fate 
over  this  last  move — which  will  leave  him  of  course  by 
himself  for  a  very  much  longer  time  than  he  first  antici- 
pated— now  what  do  you  think  is  the  new  role  he  haa 
arranged  for  himself?" 

'*  How  could  I  think?"  laughing  at  the  pretended  look 
of  disgust  on  the  pretty,  piquant  face. 

"  To  be  delighted,  then;  charmed  at  the  prospect  of  be- 
ing left  solitary  until  Christmas!  Do  you  believe  him? 
I  don't!  I  am  certain  now  that  he  is  a  dark  schemer  and 
that  there  is  more  in  this  than  we  can  yet  see!  He  declares 
that  it  is  all  for  my  good;  that  now  at  last  an  opening  has 
been  made  for  me,  and  that  I  am  very  likely  to  make 
what  he  calls  '  a  good  match.*  " 

*'  You  might  do  that  without  stirring,  perhaps/'  says 
Delaney,  slowly. 


THE    DUCHESS.  79 

Has  she  forgotten  all  about  that  late  proposal?  Has 
that  unfortunate  youag  man's  misery  (of  course  he  is 
miserable)  passed  from  her  mind?  Yet  she  had  un- 
doubtedly led  him  to  his  doom.  It  had  all  come,  in  his 
(Delaney's)  opinion,  from  sticking  straws  in  his  hair  until 
he  was  as  mad  as  Ophelia.  Yet  now  here  she  was,  appar- 
ently oblivious  of  any  straws,  any  broken-spirited  wooer. 

The  Duchess,  indeed,  has  evidently  for  a  moment  for- 
gotten the  Kilgarriff  affair  altogether  in  her  desire  to 
analyze  her  father's  motives. 

"  There  is  something  I  don't  like  about  his  manner," 
she  goes  on.  "  One  would  think  he  wanted  to  get  rid  of 
me.  Of  me,  mind  you!  But  if  any  such  wild  dream  as 
the  hope  of  shaking  me  off  has  entered  his  head  I  can  tell 
him  he  is  making  a  grand  mistake;  that's  all.  If  ever  I 
do  marry  I  shall  carry  him  along  with  me  wherever  I  go, 
be  it  to  the  Sandwich  Islands  or  the  very  middle  of  Central 
Africa. " 

**  Let  us  hope,  for  *  dad's  *  sake,  that  your  future  hus- 
band will  have  no  business  on  either  of  those  delightful 
spots,"  says  Denis,  rather  heavily. 

"  I  don't  believe  he'll  have  business  anywhere,"  says  the 
Duchess,  in  an  aggrieved  tone.  *'I  don't  believe  he  ex- 
ists; or  that  I  shall  ever  get  as  far  as  even  a  possible  hus- 
band." 

"  How  can  you  say  that?"  exclaims  he,  almost  roughly. 
"  Have  you  already  forgotten  Kilgarriff?" 

*'  OhI"  coloring  hotly  from  chin  to  brow.  "  You  mean 
Othol  Did  dad  tell  you  about  that?  Very  mean  of  him, 
IcaUit" 


80  THE    DUCHESS. 

**  Yoa  forget  it  was  only  in  mc  lie  confided.  I  am 
nothing.  A  cousin  would  naturally  be  told  anything  of 
that  sort,  and  the  news  could  not,  of  course,  concern  or 
hurt  me  in  any  way.  '* 

'*  No;  of  course  not,'*  slowly. 

**  Well,  at  Ventry,  as  you  say,  or  rather  as  your  father 
says,  you  will  perhaps  find  some  one  who — '* 

"  At  Ventry,"  with  a  little  frown,  "you  won't  know 
me.     I  certainly  shall  not  be  attractive." 

"  But  why?"  impatiently. 

' '  For  one  thing  I  shall  be  afraid  to  speak.  I  shall, " 
recovering  herself  a  little — sufficiently  to  allow  an  irre- 
pressible laugh  to  fall  from  her  lips — *'  be  lost  in  a  desire 
to  conduct  myself  with  propriety.  I  shall  be  lonely,  too," 
with  a  touch  of  prospective  misery.  "No  one  will  call 
me  Norah  there.  Not  a  soul  will  think  of  me  as  '  the 
Ducliess. '  I  shall  be  Miss  Delaney.  Oh,  how  unfriendly 
it  sounds." 

*'  Not  worse  than  Miss  anything  else." 

"  Far  worse  to  me.  But  I  know  what  I  shall  do," 
brightening.  "  The  very  instant  I  begin  to  know  any  one 
a  little  better  I  shall  entreat  him  to  call  me  Norah.  *' 

"  I  hope  you  won't!"  hastily  turning  to  her  a  face  full 
of  an  angry  fear. 

"Hope  in  vain,  then,*'  gayly.  "I  shall,  indeed.  I 
shall  never  feel  at  home  until  every  one  calls  me  by  my 
first  name." 

"  And  is  that  your  idea  of  conducting  yourself  with  pro- 
priety?" with  ill-suppressed  wrath.  '*  If  you  persist  in 
that  course,  Norah — if  you  permit  every  man  yoa  meet  to 


THE    DUCHESS.  81 

call  you,  after  a — a  few  days*  acquaintance,  by  your  Chris- 
tian name,  it  is  my  duty  to  warn  you  that  there  is  yet  an- 
other name  by  which  you  will  infallibly  be  called.  '* 

There  is  perhaps  rather  too  much  vehemence  in  his 
manner. 

"  And  what?"  questions  she,  in  a  tone  that  should  have 
warned  him  that  she  is  making  ready  for  battle. 

"  A  flirt!  a  coquette  I" 

He  has  grown  very  pale,  and  there  is  a  frown  upon  his 
brow.  A  frown,  however,  that  sinks  into  insignificance 
beside  the  one  that  she  now  makes  him  a  present  of. 

"A  flirt!  a  coquette!*'  Not  all  the  italics  or  notes  ot 
admiration  in  the  printer's  power  could  give  an  adequate 
idea  of  the  concentrated  indignation  she  throws  into  her 
repetition.  "I!  Well,  I  must  say  you  haven't  improved 
in  your  manners  since  last  I  saw  you!  So  that  is  what  you 
call  me!"  The  flagrant  injustice  of  this  accusation  is  evi- 
dently apparent  even  to  herself,  because  she  hurries  on  as 
if  to  forbid  the  protestation  he  vainly  attempts.  *'  At  all 
events,"  contemptuously,  "you  have  nothing  to  complain 
of  on  that  score.  I  have  never  flirted  or  coquetted  with 
you!" 

■'  Certainly  not,"  angrily.  **  You  forget  I  am  your 
cousin "  —  he  clings  to  this  fact  with  a  melancholy 
strength,  as  though  desirous  of  receiving  moral  backbone 
from  it — "  and  a  cousin,  we  all  know,  is  quite  the  same 
as—" 

**  No,  it  isn't.  It  isn't  the  least  bit  in  the  world  like  a 
brother,"  interrupts  the  Duchess  truculently.     **  I  know 


83  THE    DUCHESS. 

all  about  that.  There  was  Kitty  French — Lily*s  Sister— 
and  she  had  a  cousin  who  came  down  here  and  called  him- 
self her  brother,  and  made  violent  love  to  her  notwith- 
standing, and  when  he  went  away  at  last  they  found  out  he 
had  been  engaged  to  another  girl  all  the  time,  and  he 
married  her,  and  Kitty  was  quite  broken-hearted  for 
months  and  months  afterward.  So  cousins  aren't  broth- 
ers, you  see;  and  therefore  they  have  no  right  to  be  rude 
and — and  interfering." 

There  is  much  righteous  anger  in  her  tone,  and  the  glance 
she  deigns  to  cast  at  him  is  full  of  triumph.  As  for  Denis, 
it  seems  to  him  as  though  a  small,  cold,  remorseless  hand 
has  fastened  on  his  heart.  How  that  story  had  come  home 
to  him!  But  in  his  case  the  tables  are  indeed  turned.  He 
is  the  one  who  will  suffer,  not  his  clear-eyed,  impetuous 
child.  Suffer,  not  for  months  and  mouths  only,  but  for- 
ever. Well,  thank  Heaven,  the  pain  will  be  all  on  hia 
side,  and — no  one  the  wiser. 

They  have  come  to  a  wide  stream,  shallow  in  parts,  but 
always  deep  enough  to  give  the  unlucky  crosser  who  should 
miss  the  stepping-stones  a  severe  wetting.  These  stones 
lie  across  the  bed  of  the  river  at  very  unequal  distances, 
and  are  for  the  most  jjarty  wobbly  and  abominably  unre- 
liable. Denis,  planting  a  foot  firmly  on  the  first  of  them, 
holds  out  his  hand  in  dignified  silence  to  the  Duchess. 

Her  grace,  however,  rejects  his  advances  with  a  scorn 
unbounded. 

**  No,  thank  you,*'  says  she,  picking  up  her  pink  skirts 
and  preparing  to  do  or  die.  "  I  can  get  across  quite 
well  by  myself.     I  feel  sure/'  with  a  terrible  glance,  **  it 


THE    duchess:  85 

woaid  be  more  than  any  one  could  expect  of  you  that  you 
ghould  give  a  helping  hand  to  a — coquette  I" 

*'  I  didn't  call  you  that!"  indignantly. 

*'  No?  I  quite  thought  I  heard  you  use  the  word. 
Well,  at  all  events,  to  look  at  you  *' — severely  —  "it  is 
easy  to  see  that  at  this  very  instant  you  are  calling  me  all 
sorts  of  names — secretly.  Pray  cross  over,  Denis.  Don't 
mind  me!" 

"  As  you  will,**  says  Delaney,  shrugging  his  shoulders; 
and  stepping  briskly  from  stone  to  stone  he  soon  reaches 
the  opposite  bank.  There  he  stands,  whistling  something 
from  "  Ruddygore,''  and  apparently  oblivious  to  the  fact 
that  a  young  lady  is  somewhere  within  view,  attempting 
with  light  but  nervous  steps  to  cross  that  primitive  bridge. 

An  "Oh!"  however,  faint,  but  frightened,  coming  to  his 
ears,  he  turns  quickly  to  see  that  Norah  is  standing  on  the 
middle  stone,  a  wicked,  wily  stone — and  that  her  face  is  by 
no  means  so  devoid  of  fear  as  she  fondly  believes  it  to  be. 
Not  fear  of  a  desperate  character,  a  merely  carnal  fear 
about  the  well-being  of  her  dainty  cambric  gown. 

"  Shall  I  help  your**  demands  he,  coldly,  though  in 
reality  he  is  fairly  dying  to  go  to  her  assistance. 

"  Certainly  not!**  icily.  "  Eather  than  accept  your  as- 
sistance rd  a  thousand  times  rather  fall  in  and  be 
drowned.** 

As  the  water  could  not  possibly  come  up  to  the  bald 
crown  of  an  infant  there  is  no  immediate  danger  of  this. 

"  Please  yourself,  of  course,**  says  Delaney,  calmly. 

If  annoyed,  he  still  keeps,  however,  an  eye  upon  her, 
«nd  at  the  very  last  stepping-  stone,  seeing  her  lose  her 


Si  THE    DUCHESeC 

balance  and  stagger  dangerously,  be  rushes  forward,  only 
barely  in  time  to  save  that  charming  gown  from  destruc- 
tion. 

He  has  his  arm  around  her;  he  has  drawn  her  on  to  the 
high  and  dry  bank.  She  is  now,  indeed,  in  perfect  safety, 
but  still  his  arm  is  round  her.  It  is  not  always  easy  to 
remember  (not  alwaj's),  when  the  face  we  love  is  so  near 
our  own — the  little  idolized  form  lying  contentedly  in  our 
embrace. 

"  My  darling!  you  are  not  hurt?'*  w^hispers  he  in  an  im- 
passioned tone,  holding  her  still  closer  to  him.  All  his 
heart's  yearning,  all  his  unhappy  love,  speaks  in  those 
words. 


CHAPTER  Xn. 

"  With  white  feet  bruised  from  no  deliglitful  way, 
Througli  darkness  and  the  disenclianted  air. 
Lost  Love  went  weeping  half  a  winter's  day," 

A  second's  silence  and  then — 

*'Hurt?    No.     Ob,  nor 

Her  voice  is  a  mere  sigh.  In  the  charming  face  uplifted 
to  his  what  is  it  that  he  sees?  Such  a  swift,  sweet,  shy 
glance  as  she  gives  him;  such  a  tender  light  there  is  in  the 
lovely  eyes;  such  a  famt,  happy  trembling  of  the  perfect 
lips!    What  does  it  all  say? 

With  a  feeling  of  misery  as  yet  unknown  to  him  the 
young  man  slowly  loosens  his  arm  around  her  and  lets  her 
go.  Puts  her  from  him,  as  it  were,  that  innocent  tempfc 
res8> 


THE    DUCHESS.  85 

She  knows  nothing,  however,  of  the  thoughts  that  sting 
and  torment  him.  She  has  recovered  herself  quickly,  and 
with  a  girFs  first  instinct  seeks  to  hide  the  tenderness  that 
had  for  an  instant  flashed  into  being,  startling  her  ahuost 
as  keenly  as  it  had  shocked  him.  She  flings  it  all  from 
her  by  a  supreme  effort.  She  is  laughing.  The  tender 
smile  has  died;  he  might  almost  indeed  believe  that  that 
strange  sweet  light  had  never  shone  within  her  eyes. 

"  Eow  that  you  have  rescued  me  from  a  watery  grave,'* 
says  she,  gayly,  "  I  suppose  I  am  bound  in  common  grati- 
tude to  forgive  you.  But  you  were  cross.  Come  and  sit 
down  here,  Denis,  and  tell  me  all  about  the  people  I  am 
going  to  meet  to-morrow.     First,  your  mother.'' 

Except  that  her  eyes  do  not  meet  his  as  freely  as  of  old, 
he  could  bring  himself  to  think  that  that  revelation  of  a 
minute  since  was  but  part  of  a  cruel  dream.  But  he  had 
seen;  he  can  not  forget.  He  knows!  And  with  the  wild 
mad  joy  the  knowledge  brings  him  there  is  also  a  sense  of 
despair  and  of  dishonor.  One  thought  haunts  him.  He 
should  have  told  her. 

"  What  is  your  mother  like?"  asks  the  Duchess,  giving 
him  a  little  push  with  her  hand  to  '*  wake  him  up,"  as  she 
says.     He  has  flung  himself  on  the  grass  at  her  feet. 

"  She  is  tall,  fair,  handsome." 

**  Not  like  you,  then?"  with  some  disappointment. 

**  No,"  says  Denis,  unable  to  refrain  from  a  short  laugh 
at  this  naive  rejoinder. 

"  Do  you  think,"  anxiously,  **  that  I  shall  get  on  with 
ter?" 

**SpJiire  yourself  speculation  on  that  score,"  says  ho. 


86  THE    DU0HE8S. 

quickly.  **  Every  one  gets  on  with  my  mother;  and  yoa 
are  sure  to  love  her,  because  she  will  love  you.  She  is 
griiciousness  itself.  She  is  beloved  by  all.  She  is  the 
sweetest  woman  in  the  world,'*  says  her  son,  not  with  en- 
thusiasm, but  with  a  settled  conviction  that  is  clearly  the 
growth  of  many  years,  and  is  not  possible  to  shake. 

"  How  you  love  her!"  says  the  Duchess,  looking  with 
approval  at  him.  "Just  the  same  way  that  I  love  dad. 
"Well,  go  on,  tell  me  about  the  others.*' 

*'  Better  wait  till  you  see  them.** 

"  No.  I  should  like  a  portrait  or  two  beforehand. 
They  help  one.  What  of  that  cousin  who  stays  with  you 
so  much.     Katherine,  is  it  not?" 

"  Katherine,  certainly.     With  a  K,  mind.** 

*'  Does  that  mean  that  she  is  an  austere  person?  Is  a 
Catherine  with  a  C  more  pliable?  I  can't  take  in  such 
frivolous  descriptions.  Tell  me  more  of  her.  She  inter- 
ests me  in  some  strange  way.  Some  way  that  is  not  pleas- 
ant, I  think.     Well,  what  is  she  like?** 

"  She  is  English.  The  most  English  person  in  England 
—or  out  of  it,  I*m  positive.  ** 

"  I  don't  mean  that,  though  I  knew  she  would  be  of  the 
precise  and  frigid  order.     What  I  mean  is — is  she  pretty?'* 

"She  is  a  'daughter  of  the  gods,  divinely  tall,  and 
most* — confoundedly  fair,**  says  Delaney,  with  a  mourn- 
ful glance  of  admiration  at  the  dark,  brilliant,  loving  eyes 
and  chestnut  locks  of  the  girl  beside  him.  "  She  is  perfect 
at  all  points.  You  could  not  find  a  flaw  in  her,  and  you 
could  not  ruffle  her  or  take  her  aback  to  save  your  life. 
She  always  knows  exactly  what  to  say,  and  as  a  rule  she 


THE    DUCHESS.  87 

says  it,  whether  you  like  it  or  not;  and  she's  a  very  good 
girl,  you  know,"  says  he,  pulling  himself  up  somewhat 
shortly,  as  if  a  little  ashamed  of  his  treatment  of  the  case 
iu  question. 

"  Does  she  live  at  Ventry?'' 

"  N — 0.  Not  exactly.  She  has  heaps  of  money,  and 
can  therefore  go  where  she  j)leases;  but  generally  it  pleases 
her  to  go  wherever  my  mother  chances  to  be;  and,  at  all 
events,  she  makes  our  place  her  head-quarters.  '* 

"Why?"  asks  the  Duchess  suddenly.  She  is  looking 
him  fair  in  the  eyes,  a  little  increased  brilliancy  in  her 
own.  Is  there  something  in  his  manner,  halting,  uncer- 
tain, reluctant,  that  conveys  to  her  a  vague  suspicion  of  the 
truth? 

*'  Why?''  she  says  again,  leaning  forward  as  though  to 
read  his  face,  and  he,  as  if  unable  to  meet  at  this  crisis  the 
gaze  of  Ihose  earnest,  honest  eyes,  turns  over  on  his  face 
and  begins  to  pull  up  absently  the  blades  of  grass  before 
him. 

*'  Why?"  repeats  she,  with  gentle  persistence;  yet  there 
is  something  in  her  tone  that  warns  him  she  will  be  an- 
swered. 

"  Because,  for  one  thing,  she  is  my  mother's  niece,  and 
because  " — unsteadily — "  some  day  I  am  going  to  marry 
her!" 

Dead  silence!  Delaney  goes  on  mechanically  plucking 
up  the  grasses,  while  the  Duchess  sits  with  her  small  brown 
hands  tightly  folded  in  her  lap,  gazing  fixedly  at  the  beech 
hedge  opposite.     She  does  not  see  it,  however.     There  is  a 


88  THE    DUCHESS. 

little  mist  before  her  eyes — a  sickening  feeling  at  her  heart 
— a  wild  craving  to  be  alone;  but  above  and  beyond  all  a 
sense  of  shame!  Only  a  few  minutes  since  she  had  learned 
the  great  secret  of  her  life — the  sweetest  secret  the  world 
could  ever  tell  her,  as  then  she  dreamed;  and  now — 
already — it  is  a  source  of  disgrace  to  her,  an  ignominy,  an 
ever-living  reproach.  One  grain  of  comfort  indeed  she 
has,  and  to  this  she  clings  with  a  desiderata  strength.  He 
does  not  know!    He  can  not,  and  he  never  shall! 

He  is  talking  now,  and  in  a  dull  sort  of  way  she  is  awar< 
that  his  voice  is  very  unlike  the  joyous  one  that  has  be^ 
come  to  her  so  fatally  dear. 

"  It  began  when  we  were  boy  and  girl  together,'*  he  ia 
saying,  in  a  rather  monotonous  way,  like  one  repeating  an 
abhorred  lesson.  "It — I  don't  know  how  it  began!  We 
drifted  into  it,  I  suppose,  because  we  were  cousins;  good 
friends,  if  you  will,  but — nothing  more!" 

"  Do  you  think  she  would  like  you  to  discuss  her  with — 
with  a  stranger?"  says  the  Duchess,  gently;  but  oh!  what 
is  the  matter  with  the  fresh,  glad,  young  voice?  "  If —if 
I  were  engaged  to  any  one  I  don't  think  I  should  like  the 
man  I  was  going  to  marry  to  talk  so  of  me  to — but — oh! 
I  forgot,"  with  a  determined  but  most  mournful  smile, 
"  a  cousin,  according  to  you,  is  as  a  brother,  and  of  course 
one's  brother  may  say  and  do  what  he  pleases;  and  if  he 
can  not  make  a  confidante  of  his  sister — vhy — " 

"No rah!"  He  has  risen  to  his  feet  and  she  can  see 
that  he  is  deadly  pale. 

"  And  why  " — hurriedly  and  with  a  little  unmirthful 
laugh—*'  why  do  you  call  her  Katherine?    Kitty,  now! 


THE    DUCHESS.  89 

Kitty  is  a  sweeter,  a  more  loving  name.  Ah!  you  should 
mend  your  manners." 

"  Norah,  don't  speaii  to  me  like  that.  If  you  would 
only  let  me — " 

"  I  knew  a  girl  once  called  Kitty/'  interrupting  him 
feverishly.  "  Such  a  pretty  girl  as  she  was!  She  died. 
Many  people  die;  but  your  Kitty  won't  die,  I  hope." 

"No!     She  won't!"  shortly. 

"  With  what  a  certainty  you  say  that!  And  yet — don't 
3^ou  know  it  is  always  those  whom  we  love  best — who — 
but,"  wearily,  and  with  a  last  flickering  smile,  '*  what  a 
bird  of  ill  omen  I  am!     Do  not  mind  me." 

"  If  it  comes  to  talking  of  her  whom  I  love  best,"  begins 
he,  recklessly,  "you  must  know  that—" 

*'  Take  care!"  says  she,  in  a  tone  so  low  but  of  such  ex- 
treme hauteur  that  it  startles  him.  Can  it  be  the  childish 
creature  standing  before  him  who  has  given  utterance  to  it. 
Her  lips  are  white,  but  her  eyes  are  flashing.  A  minute 
later  she  speaks  again  in  her  ordinary  tone.  "  Come 
home,"  she  says,  very  naturally — the  slight  touch  of  pas- 
sion has  evidently  restored  in  a  measure  her  mental  bal= 
ance.     "  I'm  tired,  I  think,  and  dad  will  be  wanting  me." 

She  stops,  as  if  struck  by  some  thought,  and  then  goes 
on  again.  "  That  is  a  good  thing  to  remember,"  she 
says,  "  that  dad  will  always  be  wanting  me.'* 


no  THE    DUCHESS. 


CHAPTER  Xm, 

"  I  am  sure  care's  an  enemy  to  life." 

The  great  clock  in  the  western  tow'er  is  giving  out  five 
resounding  strokes  as  the  carriage  draws  up  at  the  hall 
door  of  Castle  Ventry.  The  shades  of  evening  are  already 
descending,  and  a  soft  mellow  glow  diffuses  itself  over  the 
sloping  lawns  and  the  gay  i3leasance  that  lies  on  the 
right-hand  side  of  the  magnificent  old  house.  Peacocks 
are  strutting  up  and  down  upon  the  stone  terraces  and  a 
perfume  fragrant  and  drowsy  steals  up  from  the  gardens. 

The  Duchess,  stepping  to  the  ground,  looks  around  her 
with  an  appreciative  eye.  She  is  very  pale,  either  from 
the  long  journey  or  an  uncertainty  about  her  next  move, 
but  she  is  perhaps  a  little  upheld  by  the  charming  hat  she 
is  wearing,  a  new  one,  and  one  quite  unprecedented  hither- 
to in  the  annals  of  her  wardrobe.  A  hat  rejoicing  in  deli- 
cate j)lumes  and  of  as  dainty  a  nature  altogether  as  any 
young  woman  ever  born  in  the  purple  could  desire.  It  is 
a  present  from  dad,  who  had  drawn  upon  his  very  lean  re- 
sources to  get  it  for  her,  and  who  had  sent  for  it  all  the 
way  to  Dublin. 

She  follows  Denis  into  the  spacious  hall,  where  he  would 
fain  have  said  some  word  of  welcome  to  her,  but  the 
words  refuse  to  come,  and  turning  abruptly  aside  he  opens 
the  door  of  a  room  on  his  right. 

There  is  a  curtain  beyond  it,  and  from  beyond  that  again 


THE    DTJCHESS.  91 

comes  to  the  tired  little  traveler  the  gay  sounds  of  many 
Yoices — a  laugh  or  two— the  cheerful  tinkle  of  cups  and 
spoons.  Denis  has  pushed  aside  the  curtain,  and  as  he 
looks  into  the  room  all  eyes  there  see  him. 

"You  have  come?  Well?"  cries  a  gay,  rather  saucy 
voice — a  voice  the  Duchess  likes. 

And  then — 

"So  you  have  escaped  with  your  life  for  the  second 
timer'*  says  another  voice,  low  and  sweet,  and  trainante, 
but  with  a  little  delicate  sneer  running  through  it.  A 
voice  that  drives  the  blood  with  a  rush  to  Norah's  cheeks, 
"And  have  you  impounded  the  little  Aborigine?  Have 
you  brought  her  intact?  None  of  the  feathers  wanting? 
The  war  paint  all  there?     The—'' 

Denis,  with  a  vehement  haste,  steps  back  into  the  hall, 
closing  the  door  behind  him.  He  has  flushed  painfully,  a 
dark  red,  and  as  he  looks  nervously  at  Norah  she  sees  an 
expression  round  his  mouth  that  is  new  to  her.  It  is  hard, 
almost  revengeful. 

"  The  room  is  full,"  he  says,  hurriedly.  "  You  will  not 
perhaps  like  to  go  in  and  see  them  all  until  you  have  rested 
a  little  while.  My  mother  is  not  there,  but  she  will  come 
to  you. " 

"  Pray  do  not  be  so  unhappy  about  it,"  says  the  Duch- 
ess, with  a  little  faint  smile.     "  I  do  not  mind  it  at  all. 
People  will  jest,  you  know.     Was  it  Katherine?" 
"  Miss  Cazalet  might  have  been  there.     I—" 
"  No,  do  not  say  it.     Is  it  worth  it?"  interrupts  she, 
coldly.     "You  need  not  invent  anything.     There  is  ne 


9)8  THE    DUCHESS. 

necessity  for  it,  as  I  shaVl  know  for  myself  by  and  by.  Be 
sure  I  shall  remember  that  voice  always." 

"  I  regret  that  this  rudeness — '*  he  is  beginning 
moodily,  when  he  stops  short.  What  is  it  he  would  say? 
"What  is  the  matter  with  him?  Why  can  he  not  speak  to 
her  as  he  used  to  do  in  those  first  glad,  sweet  old  days, 
when  this  shadow  that  now  rests  ever  between  them  was 
unknown?  He  is  still  struggling  with  his  effort  to  say 
something  to  her  in  a  more  natural  manner  when  a  foot- 
step near  startles  them  both. 

It  is  Mme.  Delaney.  She  comes  quickly  up  to  Norah 
and,  laying  both  her  hands  on  her  shoulders,  looks  at  her 
long  and  earnestly.  Something  of  sorrow  deepens  her  gaze 
after  a  moment  or  two.  There  is  that  in  the  girFs  beauti- 
ful face  that  reminds  her  of  the  husband  of  her  youth,  lost 
such  a  long  time  ago,  but  never  forgotten. 

"  My  dear,  dear  child, '^  she  says,  with  a  soft,  long  sigh, 
and,  placing  her  arms  around  her,  kisses  her  with  a  linger- 
ing tenderness.  It  is  plain  that  the  little  Duchess  has  in 
her  first  moment  found  a  warm  corner  in  that  gentle 
heart. 

With  the  embrace  just  received  a  sense  of  rest,  of  sup- 
port, enters  into  Norah.  There  is  something  in  the  calm, 
handsome  face  of  madame  to  inspire  instant  confidence  in 
the  beholder,  and  Korah  gives  herself  up  to  her  without  a 
fear.  She  may  be  English  (and  just  of  late  Norah  has  be- 
gun to  hate  all  English  women),  she  may  be  Scotch,  Welsh, 
a  Hottentot,  if  you  will,  but  she  could  not  possibly  feel 
more  at  home  with  her  all  at  once  if  she  had  been  an  Irish- 
woman born  and  bred. 


THE    DUCHESS.  93 

"  You  are  tired,  darlinrij.  You  will  come  up  to  your 
room  with  me,"  said  madame,  fondly  stroking  the  girl's 
little  slim,  trembling  hand. 

"  Thank  you,  Aunt  Maud." 

*'  No;  not  that!*'  says  madame,  laughing.  "  Katherine 
and  many  others  call  me  Aunt  Maud,  and  now  I  should 
like  a  change.  That  is  only  natural,  eh,  Denis?  You 
shall  call  me  auntie  —  if  you  don't  mind?"  with  the 
sweetest  glance.  "  I  have  so  pined  to  be  addressed  by  that 
name  all  my  life  by  my  numerous  English  nieces  and 
nephews,  but  they  would  none  of  it.  Said  I  was  of  too 
imposing  a  build,  too  majestic  for  such  familiarities;  but  I 
think  my  little  Irish  niece  will  not  fail  me." 

"  No — no,  indeed!"  says  Norah,  shyly;  and  then  more 
shyly  still,  but  with  an  adorable  smile — "  No — indeed, 
auntie!" 

*' She  is  a  witch  —  a  siren!"  cries  madame,  greatly 
pleased,  appealing  to  Denis  for  sympathy.  Poor  Denis! 
"And  what  a  little  thing  she  is!  Come  upstairs,  dar- 
ling, and  let  me  take  off  your  things  at  once.  My  maid 
shall  be  yours  after  to-day;  but  just  now  I  should  like  to 
have  you  for  half  an  hour  all  to  myself." 

She  is  Denis's  mother,  and  she  has  lost  the  first  slender 
symmetrical  curves  and  outlines,  yet  there  is  still  an 
honest  youthf ulness  about  her  singularly  attractive.  Her 
mouth  is  large  and  loving,  her  eyes  blue;  and  the  soft  lace 
cap  that  rests  upon  her  head  hides  hair  that  is  as  soft  and 
silky  as  a  girl's,  and  without  a  thread  of  gray  in  it. 

**  Denis  told  me  so  much  about  you,"  says  she,  wheij 
she  has  helped  the  Duchess  to  take  off  her  things,  "  that  I 


94.  THE    DUCHESS. 

feel  as  if  I  knew^  you.  But  with  you,  of  course,  it  is  differ- 
ent.    I  must  be  more  or  less  an  utter  stranger  to  you.'* 

"  Oh,  no!  If  Denis  talked  of  me  to  you  he  must,  1 
think,  have  talked  even  more  of  you  to  me;  and  all  he  said 
was  of  such  a  sort  that  I  knew  if  1  did  not  love  you  it 
would  be  my  own  fault. " 

"  Did  he?  Did  he  really  so  describe  me?'*  says  madame, 
a  delicate  color  rushing  to  her  cheek.  "  Oh!  Norah!  if  I 
could  tell  you  what  a  son  he  is!"  Her  gentle  face  is  in- 
deed alight  with  a  lovely  gratification.  *'  But  you  are 
tired,  dear  child.     You  must  take  a  glass  of  wine." 

She  fusses  over  the  girl  in  a  mild  kindly  way  for  a  little 
while;  taking  very  evident  pleasure  in  her,  and  presently, 
sitting  down,  takes  one  of  her  hands  between  her  own. 

"I  am  glad  you  have  come  back  to  Ireland,**  says 
Norah,  after  awhile.  "  Selfishly  glad,  1  mean.  Your 
coming  has  made  you  known  to  me." 

"  A  pretty  compliment,**  smiling.  "  Yes,  and  I  am 
glad,  too,  for  certain  reasons;  but  for  the  rest — I  confess  I 
am  a  coward,  ISTorah,  where  Denis  is  concerned,  and  I 
dread  the  results  of  this  visit.  ** 

*'  But  why?  The  peoj)le  round  here — are  they  so  dis- 
affected toward  their  landlord?** 

*'  What  a  superfluous  question  in  disloj'al  Kerry!  Have 
you  forgotten  the  tragic  event  that  occurred  within  the  past 
two  years  on  this  estate?  Are  you  ignorant  of  the  daily, 
hourly  crimes  that  are  being  committed  throughout  the 
country?  When  Denis  decided  on  coming  over  and  super- 
intending affairs  himself  I  felt  I  dared  not  try  to  influ- 
ence him  against  the  decrees  of  his  conscience,  but  I  felt 


THE    DUCHESS..  95 

»/so  that  he  carried  his  h'fe  in  his  hands,  and  that  I  should 
never  know  a  happy  moment  spent  amongst  these  blood- 
thirsty creatures. " 

"Still  they  may  respect  Denis  when  they  would  not  a 
paid  agent/' 

"  A  vain  hope.  They  have  not  respected  him.  Already 
he  has  had  two  threatening  letters,  and  last  week  twenty- 
five  poor,  dumb,  defenseless  beasts — cows  of  his — were 
most  brutally  mutilated.  It  sickens  me  to  think  of  it/' 
says  niadame,  who  has  grown  rather  pale.  "  And  if  they 
will  not  spare  innocent  creatures  that  can  not  thwart  or 
harm  them,  how  will  it  be  with  those  who — "  She  stops 
abruetly,  and  a  strong  shudder  runs  through  her  frame. 
**  I  assure  you  I  dwell  always  on  the  worst  side  of  it,''  she 
says. 

"  But  if  Denis  were  to  try  to  conciliate  them?"  hazards 
Korah. 

'*  That  is  not  to  be  hoped  for.  You  have  seen  only 
Denis's  happiest  moods,  those  he  keeps  for  his  mother," 
with  a  very  loving  smile,  "  and  the  few  he  really  likes,  as 
he  likes  you,  child;  but  he  can  be  terribly  determined  at 
times,  and  the  death  of  that  poor  young  man,  his  agent, 
Btill  rankles  in  his  mind.  There  are  mutterings  in  the 
very  air  we  breathe,  warnings  in  every  breeze.  It  is  in  ter- 
ror I  seek  my  bed  at  night;  I  scarcely  know  what  it  is  I 
dread,  yet  fear  overwhelms  me  now  and  then,  and  I  feel 
certain  at  least  of  this,  that  revenge  will  be  attemjDted." 

"  But  revenge  for  what?"  asks  Norah,  growing  anxious. 
**  How  has  Denis  exasperated  the  people?" 

"  For  one  thing  he  has  refused  to  accept  their  terms 


96  THE    PUCHESS. 

(very  iniquitous  ones)  with  regard  to  payment  of  rents  that 
are  now,  some  of  them,  over  tliree  years  due.  lie  will  give 
no  quarter,  he  says,  to  those  who  gave  no  quarter  to  his  mur- 
dered agent.  He  will  mete  out  measure  for  measure,  full 
and  perfect.  He  is  wrong  perhaps?'*  questions  the  anxious 
mother,  looking  at  Korah,  as  if  for  contradiction. 

"  One  can  hardly  blame  him,'*  replies  she,  with  a  sigh. 

*'  Not  I,  for  one;  but  yet  I  fear  his  uncompromising  at- 
titude may — may —  Dear  Norah!"  rising  to  her  feet  and 
beginning  rapidly  to  pace  the  room,  *'  I  can  not  put  my 
fears  into  words,  but  I  know  and  anticipate  only  evil  from 
our  sojourn  here.  Well,  well,''  making  an  effort  to  overcome 
her  agitation,  **  I  have  no  right  to  press  my  troubles  ujjon 
you  in  this  the  first  hour  of  our  meeting,  and  indeed  you 
must  be  a  witch  to  drag  them  from  me  thus,  for  I  confess 
to  you,  Norah,  I  have  never  yet  hinted  of  them  to  living 
soul  save  you,  lest  it  should  come  to  Denis's  ears  and  dis- 
hearten him  by  making  him  think  I  was  unhappy  here." 

**  You  would  not  leave?"  uncertainly. 

'*  Oh,  no!  I  may  be  unhappy  now  for  him,  but  to  be 
away  from  him  when  danger  threatened  would  be  more 
than  I  could  endure.  You  see  I  tell  you  all,"  smiling. 
"  There  must  be  some  subtle  sympathy  between  us  to 
make  me  tlius  confide  in  you." 

She  sighs  and  again  presses  the  girPs  thin  little  hand 
lingeringly  between  both  her  own  soft,  white  palms. 

"  I  am  glad  you  like  me,"  says  the  Duchess,  slowly. 

"  It  is  more  than  that,  I  think,"  says  madame,  in  her 
gentle,  earnest  way.  She  is  looking  with  a  strange,  fixed 
expression  at  Norah.     Again  she  sees  in  the  girl's  beauti- 


THE    DUCHESS.  97 

lul  face  that  vivid  likeness  to  her  dead,  to  the  lover-hus- 
band of  her  youth. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  says,  leaning  toward  her,  "  I  am 
going  to  make  believe  you  are  my  little  daughter  whilst 
you  are  with  me.  I  have  often  wished  I  had  one  really. 
Not  that  Denis  " — quickly,  as  if  fearful  of  doing  injustice 
to  her  beloved  son — "  ever  left  me  much  to  wish  for;  but, 
still,  you  know,  a  daughter  must  be  a  precious  gift." 

"  You  have  Katheriue,"  says  the  Duchess,  looking  at 
her  strangely. 

*'  Yes;  yes.  And  she  is  a  very  dear  girl,  too.  Yes;  of 
course."  There  is  a  slight  suspicion  of  strain,  as  it  seems 
to  Norah,  in  madame^s  kindly  manner.  "And  Denis, 
darling,  what  did  you  think  of  him?  He  is  not  like  me, 
eh?" 

"  Oh,  yes;  very,"  exclaims  the  Duchess,  warmly. 
**  In  spite  of  your  blue  eyes  and  fair  hair  he  is  marvelous- 
ly  like  you.** 

"  So  people  say,"  with  a  pleased  air.  *'  More  like  me 
than  like  his  father.  You,"  with  a  sharp  indrawing  of 
her  breath,  "  are  like  him!  Well,  and  so  you  are  to  be 
my  daughter  for  awhile;  and  being  so  anxious  a  mother  I 
have  ordered  some  pretty  gowns  for  my  little  girl  to  be 
ready  for  her  home-coming." 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  sweetness  with  which  she 
breaks  this  intention  of  hers  to  Norah.  Who  could  resent 
it  when  that  sweet  smile  accompanies  the  words? 

*'  Oh,  auntie,"  says  the  Duchess,  flushing  crimson. 
And  then — *'  But,"  in  a  low  tone,  ''  if  dad  should  not  like 
it.     Your  giving  me  clothes,  I  mean. " 

4 


98  TI3E    DUCHESS. 

"  Tut,  my  dear;  Neil  will  like  me  to  do  my  best  for 
yon,  be  sure  of  that.  lie  will  wish  me  to  care  for  you  as 
though  you  were  indeed  my  very  own. " 

"  Neil!"  Uow  strange  it  sounds!  To  the  Duchess  it  is 
so  inconceivably  odd  to  hear  her  father  thus  alluded  to  by 
his  Christian  name  that  involuntarily  she  smiles.  Some- 
how it  i^leases  her;  it  seems  so  friendly  toward  her  dear 
dad,  now  so  far  away,  and  all  at  once  her  heart  seems  to 
open  still  further  to  her  new-found  friend. 

"  Of  course  I  coukl  not  manage  about  the  exact  fit," 
says  madame;  "  but  my  maid  is  an  invaluable  jicrson,  a  j^er- 
fect  treasure,  and  as  good  a  dress-maker  as  I  know.  Now, 
will  you  come  down-stairs  with  me  and  be  introduced  to 
the  others,  or — " 

"I'll  go  down,  I  think." 

*'  That  is  right,  dear.  Better  get  the  awkwardness  over 
at  once;  and  besides  you  will  be  able  to  make  a  choice  as 
to  your  partner  at  dinner  later  on.  Don't  trouble  to  talk. 
You  are  fatigued  by  your  journey;  that  will  excuse  a  little 
taciturnity.  I  suppose  you  would  like  Denis  to  take  you 
in  to  dinner,  but—" 

"Oh!  no!'' 

So  sharply  do  the  words  fall  from  her  that  madame 
turns  her  glance  more  directly  upon  her. 

"  You  and  he  are  good  friends:"  she  says,  somewhat  of 
question  in  her  tone. 

"  Yes;  friends,"  says  the  Duchess,  faintly. 

Madame's  kindly,  keen  blue  eyes  are  still  searching  her 
face. 

"  Every  one  likes  him,"  says  the  latter,  after  a  minutt 


THE    DUCHESS,  99 

or  two,  carelessly,  though  there  is  a  touch  of  uneasiness  in 
her  manner.  "  He  is  very  popular.  What  I  myself 
shall  do  without  him  by  and  by,  when — when  he — " 

"  When  he  is  married  to  Miss  Cazalet  you  mean?"  puts 
in  the  Duchess,  divining  the  uneasiness  and  determined 
to  combat  it  to  the  death,  if  only  for  her  own  pride's 
sake. 

"  Yes,  when  he  marries  Katherine,"  says  madame,  re- 
lieved in  part,  but  still  vaguely  troubled  as  she  looks  at 
the  proud,  cold  little  face  before  her  that  has  grown  so 
unmistakably  pale.  "  Come  down  with  me,  and  let  us 
see  if  we  can  yet  rescue  a  cup  of  tea,"  she  says,  rising  and 
drawing  the  girl's  arm  within  her  own.  Almost  as  they 
reach  the  door  of  the  library  she  turns  to  whisper  softly: 
*'  By  the  bye,  I  had  forgotten,  darling.  There  is  a  friend 
of  yours  here.  Quite  a  new  arrival.  He  came  yesterday. 
Lord  Kilgarriff. " 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Ojs'CE  again  that  soft,  low,  trained  laughter  falls  on 
Norah's  ears;  the  perfume  of  many  flowers  stirs  the  air; 
the  room  seems  wrajjped  in  a  rich  subdued  glow,  out  of 
which  one  face  alone  looks  clearly.  His  face!  Denis! 
After  one  rapid  glance  the  cruel  pain  of  her  heart  grows 
easier,  as  instinct  tells  her  it  is  not  Katherine  to  whom  he 
is  speaking  in  that  calm  smiling  fashion. 

Meantime,  madame  has  led  her  up  to  a  couch  drawn 
somewhat   apart,  on  which  a  pretty,  aristocratic-looking 


young  woman  is  sitting,  with  two  or  three  men  hoverinn 
round  her.  Her  face  is  the  most  innocent  thing  imagina- 
ble, immobile  almost,  but  for  the  eyes,  which  are  specially 
brilliant  when  you  can  see  them — which  is  not  often. 
Long  lashes,  falling  from  the  upper  lids  and  lying  on  the 
cheeks,  are  educated  to  be  a  cover  for  these  charming  tell- 
tales. 

"  Sophie,  this  is  my  niece,'*  says  madame,  standing  be- 
fore her.  "  Norah,  let  me  make  you  known  to  Lady 
Glandore.'^ 

*'  Ah!'^  says  the  pretty  young  woman.  She  sits  up  quite 
straight  and  lets  those  bashful  eyes  of  hers  study  the  Duch- 
ess for  just  a  second  or  two.  Then  she  holds  out  her  hand 
with  a  wonderfully  friendly  smile. 

"  We  have  been  expecting  you,"  she  says,  in  a  peculiar- 
ly slow,  sweet  voice;  "  but — we  did  not  quite  expect  all 
this!''  Then  she  drags  her  eyes  away  from  the  girl's 
fresh  loveliness  and  looks  at  madame  with  a  sense  of  re- 
proach in  her  manner.  "Oh!  madame,  this  is  very  hard 
on  us,"  she  says,  plaintively. 

Madame  laughs  and  leads  the  Duchess  a  step  or  two 
further  to  where  a  lively  looking  brunette  is  engaged  in  a 
seemingly  warm  argument  with  a  young  man  who  is  laugh- 
ing a  good  deal.  With  a  quick  knowledge  that  she  is  glad 
of  his  presence,  Norah  sees  that  it  is  Kilgarriff.  He  is  a 
slight  man,  about  five  feet  ten  in  height,  with  a  pale  face, 
extremely  dark  eyes  and  a  black  mustache,  rather  Italian 
in  appearance,  but  with  something  homely  about  him  that 
forbids  the  idea  of  foreign  parentage. 

The  pretty  brunette  had  given  way  in  the  lively  discoa* 


THE    DUCUESS.  lOI 

sion,  and  had  centered  her  attention  on  the  approaching 
madame  and  her  companion.  She  now  makes  a  step  for- 
ward. 

"  It  is — "  she  says,  hesitating,  and  smiling  at  the  Duch- 
ess. 

**  Norah,"  replies  madame,  smiling  too.  Then  looking 
at  her  niece,  *'  Norah,  this  is  Nancy  Blake;  I  hope  you 
and  she  will  be  good  friends.*' 

"  Madame 's  hopes  are  our  laws/'  says  the  Hon. 
Nancy,  smiling  still  at  Norah,  who  resppnds  to  the  smile 
and  then  looks  past  her  to  where  Kilgarriff  is  standing  be- 
hind her.  That  young  man  has  had  time  to  gain  a  very 
brilliant  color  and  lose  it  again,  in  a  rather  remarkable  de- 
gree, whilst  the  Duchess  has  been  making  her  way  up  the 
room.  She  herself  grows  faintly  pink  now  as  she  speaks 
to  him. 

"  How  d'ye  do,  Otho?"  says  she,  rather  demurely. 

Lord  KilgarrifP  accepts  the  hand  she  holds  out,  rather 
nervously. 

"  This  is  an  unexpected  meeting,"  he  stammers,  some- 
what baldly. 

"  An  unexpected  pleasure,  you  might  have  said,"  sug- 
gests Miss  Blake,  with  mischievous  reproach  in  her  tone. 

"  How  is  it  you  are  here?"  asks  Norah,  who  is  very  little 
embarrassed.  "  You  never  told  me  that  you  knew  my 
aunt." 

*'I  think  it  arose  more  from  the  fact  of  my  knowing 
her,"  says  Miss  Blake,  with  a  little  shrug.  "  I  met  Lord 
Kilgarriff  on  the  Riviera  some  weeks  ago,  and,"  calmly, 
**took  quite  a  fancy  to  him."    Kilgarriff  laughed.     '^  I 


102  THE    DUCHESS. 

happened  to  mention  his  name  to  Madame  Delancy  on  my 
return,  and  she  instantly  remembered  that  his  father,  or 
great-grand  sire,  or  somebody  belonging  to  him,  had  once 
been  the  bosom  fiiend  of  her  jjeople;  so  she  asked  him 
here,  and  out  of  the  goodness  of  his  heart  he  accepted  the 
invitation.     Via  tout." 

Kilgarriff  makes  some  rather  rambling  return  to  this 
half -mocking  speech,  and  the  Duchess,  slipping  into  a 
chair  near  Miss  Blake,  begins  to  look  with  curiosity  around 
her.  She  passes  over  most  of  the  women  present  until  her 
eyes  fall  upon  a  low  lounging-chair  of  saffron  velvet,  in 
which,  she  feels,  sits  the  one  for  whom  she  has  been  uncon- 
sciously seeking  ever  since  her  entrance  into  the  room. 

It  is  beyond  doubt  a  very  handsome  picture  on  which 
she  is  now  gazing.  Miss  Oazalet  is  lying  back  in  the  low 
chair,  trifling  indolently  with  a  tiny  black-aud-tan  terrier 
that  lies  crouching  in  her  lap,  her  eyes  turned  lightly  up- 
ward to  the  man  who  is  leaning  over  the  back  of  her 
lounge.  Those  eyes  are  large  and  lustrous,  if  a  rather 
light  blue,  swept  by  lashes  that  are  extremely  dark  and 
curl  daintily  upward  Her  nose  is  pure  Greek,  her  mouth 
perfect.  The  rippling  hair  that  is  drawn  back  so  softly 
from  her  broad  low  brow  is  of  a  pure  and  very  rare  gold 
color.  One  can  see  that  she  is  tall  and  slender,  and  that 
she  is  possessed  of  an  ease  and  elegance  not  to  be  rivaled. 
Her  voice,  as  it  comes  faintly  to  Norah,  who  is  watching 
her,  spell-bound  and  sick  at  lieart,  sounds  soft  and  low  as 
distant  music.  It  would  be  indeed  a  most  degenerate 
man,  one  lost  to  all  grace,  who  could  dare  to  find  a.  fault 
in  that  faultless  form. 


THE    DUCHESS.  103 

The  man  conversing  wifch  her  now  does  not  at  all  events 
come  under  this  head,  us  his  devotion  is  sufficient!}' 
marked  to  be  seen  by  all  who  will.  He  is  a  middle-aged 
gentleman;  stout,  and  somewhat  scant  of  breath,  with  the 
commencement  of  a  very  respectable  tonsure  on  the  top  of 
his  head.  He  is,  however,  bending  over  Miss  Cazalet  in  a 
semi-lover-like  attitude  and  is  apparently  addressing  her 
with  all  the  ardor  of  youth. 

"  Sir  Brandrum  Boileau,"  says  Miss  Blake,  seeing  where 
Norah's  eyes  are  riveted.  "  You  know  Katherine  Caza- 
let, of  course.  She  is  considered  the  handsomest  blonde 
in  the  kingdom.  Sticky,  I  call  her;  but  then  I'm  a  here- 
tic and  don't  love  those  heaux  yeux  of  hers,  in  spite  of 
their  saintliness.  Last  season  she  was  staying  with  the  St. 
Lawrences  in  Park  Lane,  and  went  about  a  good  deal  with 
them,  and  after  a  bit  she  became  known  as  the  '  Virgin 
Mary.*  She  is  so  seraphic!  But  if  she  is  an  angel  I  con- 
fess I  like  the  other  sort  best,  the  demons.  I'm  a  demon!" 
concludes  she,  pouncing,  as  it  were,  upon  Kilgarriff,  with 
quite  a  tragic  note  in  her  voice. 

"Oh!,  no!'*  says  he,  with  a  violent  start  and  in  a 
deprecatory  tone.     She  laughs. 

"  Kow,  shall  I  tell  you  about  the  others?"  she  says  to 
Norah.  "  They  are  not  of  the  least  consequence,  taking 
them  as  a  whole;  but  I  suppose  I  had  better  put  you  up 
about  them.  That  little  wizened-looking  man  over  there 
is  an  author;  he  is  all  brain,  no  body.  They  say  he  sold 
himself  to  the  devil  half  a  century  ago,  consenting  to  let 
his  body  go  if  his  brains  might  live  forever,  and  he  has 
been  calmly  dwindling  ever  since." 


"Half  a  century!  He  does  it  with  care,'*  says  thfe 
Duchess.     Miss  Bhike  looks  at  her  with  appreciation. 

"  I  begin  to  have  quite  a  respect  for  you/*  she  says  to 
Kilgarriif,  sotto  voce,  and  as  that  young  man  of  course 
fails  to  understand  her  she  gives  him  a  gentle  but  scornful 
push  and  tells  him  to  bring  Lady  Glandore  to  her  aid,  as 
Miss  Delaney  is  proving  too  much  for  her. 

"  He  is  such  a  muffl**  says  she,  when  he,  obedient,  has 
departed.     "  After  all,  I  dare  say  you  were  right. " 

"Eight,  how?" 

"  In  refusing  him." 

"Oh!  But  how  do  you  know  that?"  says  the  Duchess, 
a  little  shocked. 

"  "Why,  he  told  me,  of  course,"  says  Miss  Blake,  with 
charming  unconcern.  "  *Sh!  now;  here  he  comes.  Ah! 
Bless  me,  what  an  awkward  creature  it  is. " 

For  Kilgarriff,  in  his  eager  haste  to  return,  stumbles 
helplessly  over  a  little  milking-stool  in  the  way,  and  all 
but  measures  his  length  on  the  ground. 

"What's  the  good  of  your  steaming  up  the  room  at 
twenty  knots  an  hour?"  demands  the  Honorable  Nancy, 
half  laughing.  "  Where  does  the  hurry  come  in?  Tlie 
day  is  always  unconscionably  long,  spread  it  out  as  much 
as  you  can. " 

Lady  Glandore,  who  has  come  up  to  them,  sinks 
laughing  into  her  seat. 

"  Those  little  stools  are  the  most  treacherous  things 
imaginable,"  she  says,  "specially  when  they're  black. 
One  can  hardly  see  them;  and  really  of  what  wonderfuj 


THE    DUCHESS.  105 

use  are  they  after  all  that  we  should  keep  them  at  the  risk 
of  endangering  life  and  limb?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  know;  they  hnve  their  use,  you  know," 
says  Kilgarriff,  regarding  with  a  nobly  forgiving  glance 
the  black  and  perilous  stool  in  question.  "  They  give  you 
the  free  use  of  both  your  hands.  It  was  awful,  long  ago, 
having  to  hold  your  cup  and  your  cake  both.  Now  you 
can  put  your  cup  down  and  eat  your  cake,  or  you  can  put 
your  cake  down  and  eat  your  cup — or — ah! — that  is — " 

"  Oh,  never  mind!"  says  Miss  Blake. 

"Is  Nancy  letting  you  into  a  few  of  the  mysteries?" 
asks  Lady  Glandore,  in  her  soft,  low,  rather  drawling 
voice,  turning  to  Norah.  "  She  is  very  good  at  that  sort 
of  thing;  but  I  think  Mr.  Wylding  is  even  better.  He  is 
the  absurd-looking  person  with  sandy  hair  at  the  end  of 
the  room,  and  that  little  tub  of  a  woman  on  our  right  is 
his  wife,  but  she  doesn't  count.  At  least  he  won't  let 
her." 

*'  No,  poor  little  soul!  I  often  wonder  why  she  married 
him,"  says  a  man  with  a  dark,  clean-shaven  face,  who  has 
just  sauntered  up — Sir  Philip  Glandore,  as  the  Duchess 
afterward  discovers.  "  I  rather  like  her  in  spite  of  her 
many  defects.  ** 

"  Why,  yes,"  says  Miss  Blake.  "  She  is  better  than 
some.     I  suppose  he  had  money.    By  the  bye,  who  is  he?" 

"  It  doesn't  matter  in  the  least,  my  good  child,  who 
anybody  is  nowadays;  it  is  what  he  has.  He  may  be  a 
button  man  or  a  vender  of  bricks  so  long  as  he  can  pay  hia 
bills  and  entertain  the  world  at  large.  Talking  of  that 
what  has  Wylding?*' 


lOfl  THE    DUCHESS. 

**  Fifteen  hnndred  a  year  and  an  infernal  temper/*  says 
Sir  Philip,  placidly.     "  That's  his  whole  stock  in  trade.*' 

"  Bad  for  his  wife  and  not  mncb  for  any  one  else.  If  it 
6e  true  what  you  say,  what  a  fraud  the  man  is  I  He  seems 
so  specially  sociable  and  good-tempered,  so  exceedingly 
light  in  hand.  Ahl  there  is  Denis.  How  severe  he 
looks!" 

"  Well,  I  always  think  I  should  like  Denis  better  if  I 
weren't  the  least  bit  afraid  of  him,"  says  Miss  Blake,  who 
never  yet  saw  living  thing  she  feared.  "  How  did  yon  get 
on  with  him?"  turning  suddenly  to  Norah. 

Thus  addressed,  the  blood  seems  to  fly  to  Norah's  heart. 
She  makes  a  little  faint  attempt  as  if  to  answer,  but  no 
words  come.  Miss  Blake,  after  a  sharp  glance  at  her, 
steps  to  the  rescue. 

*'  I  see.  He  kept  you  in  order  as  he  does  the  rest  of  us, 
and  you  don't  like  to  say  so.  A  cousin,  like  a  brother,  is 
the  true  tonic;  unpleasant  but  wholesome.  Correctives, 
yon  know,  are  always  nasty.  Dear  Denis,  it  is  a  shame 
for  me  to  say  a  word  against  him.  It  is  a  sin  against  my 
conscience,  as  I  know  no  one  I  so  sincerely  like. " 

The  Duchess  involuntarily  lifts  her  eyes  to  hers— a  world 
of  sad  gratitude  in  their  depths.  If  Miss  Blake  had 
wanted  confirmation  of  her  suspicions,  she  has  it  now  in  full. 
A  touch  of  genuine  regret  darkens  her  piquant  face  for  a 
moment,  and  in  that  moment  is  born  a  very  honest  friend- 
liness toward  the  slander  creature  by  her  side.  Instinctive- 
ly she  lifts  her  gaze  and  turns  it  on  Delaney,  who  is  stand- 
ing partly  within  the  recess  of  a  window.  Thus  situated 
he  is-  rather  hidden  from  the  general  eye,  and  Miss  Blake's 


THE    DUCHESS.  107 

direct  glance  falls  upon  him  without  disturbing  the  direc- 
tion of  his  own. 

Was  ever  despair  more  keenly  expressed  than  in  those 
dark  eyes  that  are  fixed  with  such  a  mournful  yet  impas- 
sioned intensity  upon  the  Duchess?  They  tell  their  tale  to 
the  attentive  watcher — there  is  no  need  for  further  specu- 
lation. That  Denis  loves  this  little  dark  new-comer  as  he 
has  never  loved  the  handsome  blonde — as  he  has  never  yet 
loved  any  one — as  he  will  never  love  again — is  as  plain  to 
Miss  Blake  as  if  his  own  lips  had  said  it. 

And  now  he  starts.  His  melancholy  day-dream  is 
broken  in  upon  by  the  approach  of  his  mother,  who  comes 
up  to  him  with  a  radiant  smile. 

"  She  is  charming.  Quite  a  picture.  Not  one  word  too 
much  did  you  say,"  declares  she  with  soft  enthusiasm. 
"  Was  there  ever  such  a  mouth,  such  eyes? — and  her 
pretty  little  hands!  I  must  manage  somehow  to  take  her 
to  town  next  season  and  have  her  presented.  She  will  be 
quite  the  fashion  at  once,  her  coloring  is  so  very  original, 
and  her  manners  so  fresh.  In  fact,  I  predict  all  sorts  of 
good  things,  for  her.  She  ought,  in  my  opinion,  to  make  a 
very  excellent  marriage." 

Delaney  bites  his  lips. 

"How  you  run  away  with  things," he  says,  in  a  tone 
more  impatient  than  he  had  ever  used  with  his  idolized 
mother.  "Hereto-day — and— already  married!  Lethe" 
breathe  a  moment  or  two,  poor  child.** 

"  Ah,  well,  we  shall  see,"  says  madanie,  vaguely.  The 
impatience,  the  touch  of  pain  in  his  forced  smile,  have  not 
gone  unnoticed  by  her.     "  As  you  say,  she  is  but  a  child." 


108  THE    DF0HB88. 

Then  she  passes  on  qnickly  to  greet  another  gnest  who  ha| 
just  arrived,  and  Delaney  goes  back  to  his  unhappy  con- 
templation of  her  he  loves. 

He  has  made  a  slight  movement  as  his  mother  went  by, 
and  through  it  his  position  has  become  more  known  to 
those  immediately  within  his  view.  Two  cold  blue  eyes, 
uplifting  themselves  from  the  black-and-tan  terrier,  grow 
very  earnest  in  their  expression,  and  watch  him  with  a 
studied  scrutiny  that  denies  the  power  to  cheat  them. 
When  she  has  witnessed  his  absorption  for  quite  a  minute 
a  fine  cold  smile  parts  Miss  Cazalet's  lips.  Lifting  the 
tiny  creature  on  her  lap,  she  drops  him  deliberately,  and 
rather  cruelly,  with  a  certain  force  upon  the  ground.  A 
squeal  is  the  result  of  this  maneuver,  and  Denis,  starting, 
looks  in  its  direction,  and  straight  into  Miss  Cazalet's  eyes. 
Something  in  them  chills  him,  but  he  has  hardly  time  to 
decide  what  it  was  when  she  rises  and  moves  slowly  to 
where  the  Duchess  is  sitting,  close  to  Nancy  Blake,  and 
talking  to  a  young  man,  rather  stout  and  very  closely 
cropped,  who  rejoices  in  an  eyeglass  and  the  shortest  coat 
that  decency  will  permit,  and  who  seems  gifted  with  quite 
a  fund  of  light  and  airy  converse. 

Miss  Cazalet  having  demanded  very  prettily,  and  ob- 
tained an  introduction  to  the  Duchess,  stands  by,  listening 
to  the  idle  shafts  of  talk  that  every  now  and  then  reach 
her  ear. 

"I've  run  down  for  a  week,"  the  stout  young  man 
with  an  inch  or  two  of  coat  is  saying,  with  a  beaming 
Bmile.  **  Madame  wrote  me  word  there  was  a  garden- 
party  on  for  next  week,  so  I  knew  I  was  safe  to  meet  Mrs, 


THE    DUCHESS.  1^^ 


O'Shaughnessy,  and  as  she  is  at  present  the  light  of  my 
eyes  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  I'd  thought  I'd  come.' 
'*  What  a  name!'*  says  Miss  Cazalet. 
"  Fine  old  Irish  name,  I  give  you  my  word.     There's  a 
good  deal  of  it,  I  allow,  but  you  can't  have  too  much  of  a 
good  thing.     She  says  she  is  descended  from  a  king,  or  a 
queen,  or  several  kings  and  queens-I  really  forget.     At 
all  events,  she  is  the  one  woman  upon  whom  my  ailections 
are  at  present  set." 

-Don't  be  too  cruel!  What  on  earth  wUl  become  of 
the  others?"  says  Sir  Philip. 

''Well,  that's  it,  you  see!  What  is  a  fellow  to  do?'- 
says  the  stout  young  man— Mr.  Greene. 

-  I  hate  garden-parties-paltry  things,"  says  Miss  Blake. 
«  I  have  fixed  my  fondest  hopes  upon  the  fancy  dress  ball 
to  come  off  later  on.  Which  would  you  prefer?"  turning 
with  a  little  friendly  air  to  Norah. 

"The  ball,  I  think,"  says  she,  half  shyly.  It  is  an 
adorable  shyness,  that  brings  Mr.  Greene  to  her  feet  in  no 

time. 

"  Trust  the  Duchess  for  that,"  says  Kilgarriff,  with  a 
lingering  glance  at  his  old  friend  and  playfellow. 

'"'  The  Duchess!"  repeats  Miss  Cazalet  in  her  clear  sweet 
voice.     "  Is  that  how  they  call  you?" 

"  Dad  does,"  says  Norah,  with  a  rather  painful  blush— 
her  voice  about  a  whisper. 

"The  Duchess!  A  rather  -  er  —  pronounced  sort  of 
sobriquet,  don't  you  think?  But  of  course  very  appropri- 
ate/'  with  a  polite  smile,  but  in  a  tone  that  says  plamly 


110  THE    DUCHESS. 

that  the  Duchess  in  question  is  in  her  02)inion  of  very  in* 
ferior  quality  indeed. 

"  And  a  right  good  Duchess,  too/' says  Kilgarriff,  re- 
sentful of  this  tone. 

"  No  doubt,"  says  Miss  Cazalet  with  a  steady  smile. 

"  Has  your  grace  any  vacant  place  in  your  retinue  that 
you  might  offer  to  a  deserving  valet?'*  demands  Mr. 
Greene,  humbly.  "  If  so,  here  he  stands.  Any  post, 
however  low,  would  be  gladly  accepted.  Scullion — turn- 
spit— anything  to  serve  you!" 

*'  But  that  your  rank  precludes  the  idea,  you  should  feel 
honored,"  says  Miss  Cazalet,  fixing  the  girl's  nervous 
shrinking  eyes  with  her  own  cold  mocking  gaze.  There  is 
a  sense  of  keen  pleasure  to  her  in  the  agony  of  shyness 
that  has  overtaken  the  poor  little  Duchess  at  thus  finding 
herself  the  central  object  of  this  unknown  circle.  "  Do 
you  know,"  Miss  Cazalet  is  just  beginning  afresh,  some 
subtle  cruelty  upon  her  lips,  when  there  is  a  little  stir  be- 
hind her,  and  Denis,  pale  and  stern,  presents  himself. 
He  looks  alone  at  !N"orah. 

"  My  mother  wants  you,"  he  says,  curtly,  and,  drawing 
her  hand  within  his  arm,  carries  her  away. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"  The  human  heart,  at  whatever  age,  opens  only  to  the  heart  that 
opens  in  return." 

However,  the  end  of  the  week  brings  too  the  end  of 
Norah's  shyness;  several  things  helped  her  to  conquer  this 
very  natural  mauvaise  honte  that  had  overtaken  her  on 


THE    DUCHESS.  Ill 

finding  herself  brought  so  suddenly  in  contact  with  such  a 
number  of  strangers;  Miss  Cazalet's  subdued  but  i^erfectly 
unmistakable  hostility  for  one  thing — expressed  by  small 
impertinences  and  smiling  sneers — and  for  another,  De- 
laney's  evident  determination  to  protect  her  from  it. 

This  last  touched  her  pride  most  nearly.     His  protec- 
tion she  would  not  have — she  would  accept  no  help  from 
him  of  any  kind;  therefore  it  behooved  her  to  arouse  her 
self  and  win  a  way  for  herself  out  of  her  troubles.     Very 
small,  very  silly  troubles,  no  doubt,  but  often  very  cruel. 
She  had  plenty  of  spirit  to  bring  to  her  own  aid,  and  a 
stout  little  heart,  and  very  soon,  too,  she  made  to  herself 
friends  of  Lady  Glandore,  who  was  amused  by  her,  and  of 
Nancy  Blake,  who  honestly  liked  her.     These  two  friend- 
shii^s  greatly  strengthened  her  hand — s^iecially  in  the  mat- 
ter of  Miss  Blake,  who  was  always  only  too  eager  to  scent 
battle  in  the  breeze  where  Katherine  Cazalet  was  concerned. 
"  A  word  with  you.  Duchess,"  says  this  young  lady, 
seating  herself  in  the  deep  window  recess  of  the  room 
where  Norali  is  scribbling  a  letter  to  her  dad.     "  WeVe 
sworn  a  friendship,  you  and  I — and  if  Fm  nothing  else  I 
am  at  least  faithful  to  my  bonds.     Now,  as  to  Kilgarriff : 
have  you  quite  done  with  him?" 

'•'  What?"  coloring  furiously.  '^  I — I  don't  think  I 
understand." 

"  Then  why  are  you  growing  so  dreadfully  red?"  asks 
Miss  Blake,  with  a  i3racticalness  that  does  her  honor. 
"  However,  if  you  want  an  explana — " 

"  No,  no,"  iuterupts  the  Duchess,  in  horrified  haste. 
**  Only — how  did  you  know?" 


112  Tlii;    ULlHESS. 

**  Wliy,  he  told  me  himself.  Last  summer — a  month  or 
two  ago,  wheu  I  met  him  abroad.  If,"  laughing,  "you 
could  only  know  how  I  once  execrated  your  name!  It 
used  to  ring  in  my  wretched  ears  morning,  noon  and 
night.  Young  men  in  that  stage  ought  to  be  locked  up 
until  the  paroxysm  is  over,  or  else  given  over  to  the  tor- 
uicntors.  I  did  my  little  best  in  that  last  role.  But — er 
— if  you  are  sure  you  have  quite  finished  with  that  little 
affair—" 

"It  was  never  an  affair  of  that  sort — never.  I  have 
known  him  all  my  life.  I'm  fond  of  him  as  a  sister  might 
be,  but—'' 

"  I  know.  That  sisterly  touch  is  always  fatal.  To  his 
hopes,  however,  not  mine.  Well,  I'm  going  to  be  fond  of 
him,  too;"  she  leans  back  in  her  chair  and  laughs  softly 
but  heartily.  "Infant  in  all  but  years  though  he  be. 
Was  there  ever  so  absurd  a  boy?  It  is  a  defect  in  my  nat- 
ure, no  doubt,  but  I  know  tliis;  I  couldn't  endure  a  mas- 
ter. They  say  women  like  to  be  domineered  over — kept 
down;  that  they  find  their  real  happiness  in  being  gov- 
erned by  a  spirit  stronger  than  their  own.  If  it  be  so,  be- 
hold in  me  the  glorious  exception  to  that  rule!" 

"  Yes.  But  about  Otho?"  slightly  puzzled.  "  What  is 
it  you  mean  to  do  about  him?" 

"  Marry  him,"  promptly.  '*  As  you  assure  me,  you, 
my  friend,  have  no  tmdresse  in  that  quarter.  And  now 
haste  thee,  haste  thee,  good  maiden.  Have  you  forgotten 
it  is  the  day  of  madame's  garden-party,  and  that  already 
the  county  arriveth?  Come,  let  me  put  you  into  youi 
gown." 


THE    DUCHESS.  113 

It  is  a  day  as  beautiful  as  though  it  were  "  bespoke/'  to 
quote  the  peasants  round  about  here.     Queen's  weather  of 
a  verity,  with  a  gleaming  yellow  sunshine  that  scorns  to 
think  of  autumn,  though  ah-eady  one  begins  to  talk  of 
golden  September  as  though  it  was  indeed  here,  so  short  a 
shrift  has  August  now  before  it  drops  into  the  greedy  past. 
The  Duchess,  very  lovely  in  a  soft  white  Indian  silk,  one 
of  madame's  gifts,  glides  into  the  long  drawing-room  in 
her  pretty  girlish  way,  though  with  her  charming  head 
well  up;  and,  becoming  at  once  conscious  that  some  stran- 
gers are  present,  grows  faintly  pink  and  hesitates,  until 
madame  calls  to  her  in  the  tone  she  has  learned  to  love. 
"  Come  here,  darling,  just  for  one  moment.    The  others 
•  are  for  the  most  part  outside,  but  I  want  to  introduce  you 
to  a  very  old  friend  of  your  father's — of  mine. " 

Sitting  near  her  is  an  old  lady  whom  !N"orah  had  not 
until  now  seen — a  stout  old  lady  with  the  orthodox  cork- 
screw ringlets  and  a  large,  fat,  most  benevolent  face.  She 
seems,  indeed,  beaming  with  good-nature,  and  as  the 
Duchess  draws  near  rises  and,  laying  both  her  hands  on 
her  shoulders,  kisses  her  warmly. 

"  So  this  is  the  little  niece,"  she  says.  **  A  veritable 
and  a  very  charming  breath  from  the  old  days.  You  are 
like  your  mother,  my  dear — a  little — and  she  was  a  lovely 
woman;  but  your  eyes,  your  mouUi—  Ah!  my  dear," 
turning  to  madame,  *'  have  you  noticed  it?  She  is  so  very 
like  your  husband." 

"  Yes,  I  see  it,"  says  madame,  in  a  low  constrained 
tone.  Even  now,  after  all  these  years  that  have  passed, 
that  one  unapproachable  grief  does  not  bear  talking  about. 


114  THE    DUCHESS. 

"  I  suppose  your  father,  Neil  Delaney — I  suppose  he 
never  tokl  you  about  me,"  says  the  old  lady,  still  holding 
Norah's  Land  very  kindly,  and  smiling  at  her  as  though 
pleased  by  what  she  sees.  "It  is  years  ago  of  course. 
One  may  well  be  forgotten.  He  did  not  speak  to  you  of 
Mrs.  O'Shaughnessy?" 

"Oh,  yes!  Yes,,  indeed!"  says  the  Duchess,  eagerly. 
"Often.  I  think*' — with  an  adorable  blush  and  a  soft, 
shy  movement  of  her  eyelids — "  he  used  to  call  you  Bes- 
sie."" 

^  "  And  so  he  did,"  says  Mrs.  0 'Shaughnessy,  jDlainly  en- 
chanted by  this  touch.  "And  so  he  still  remembers  me? 
That's  nice  now  amongst  old  friends,  and  you  must  tell 
him  from  me — when  writing,  mind  " — with  a  soft  squeeze 
of  her  hand,  "  that  I  remember  him,  too,  as  well  as  when 
I  was  Bessie  MacGillicuddy.  God  bless  you,  my  dear!  you 
are  a  very  sweet  child.  And  now  sit  here  by  me  for  a 
minute  or  two.  I'd  have  called  on  you  long  ago,  but  I'm 
only  just  back  from  Italy — ^yesterday,  indeed — and — " 

At  this  instant  somebody  from  behind  lays  his  hands 
over  Mrs.  O'Shaughnessy's  eyes  and  surprises  her  into 
silence.  The  same  somebody  still  further  adds  to  his 
offense  by  bestowing  a  hearty  salute  upon  her  plump  cheek. 

"  Now,  Denis!  And  that's  yourself,  of  course.  Not 
another  one  would  have  the  audacity.  Worse  luck!"  cried 
Mrs.  O'Shaughnessy,  gayly  disengaging  herself.  "  Pity  it 
is  the  colonel  isn't  here  to  see.  "Well,  and  even  if  I  was 
twenty  years  younger  I  dare  say  I  wouldn't  say  no  to  that 
kiss,  even  though  I  might  pretend  to.  Come,  tell  me 
•verytliing;   it  seems  like  years  since  I  saw  one  of  you. 


THE    DUCHESS.  115 

When  is  the  weddmg  to  be,  eh?  I'm  young  enough  to 
dance  yet,  I  can  tell  you.  I'm  not  betraying  secrets,  eh?" 
smiling  at  Xorah.  "  You  know,  of  course,  of  this 
cousin's  " — laying  her  hand  on  Denis's  arm — "  engage- 
ment?" 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  says  Norah,  steadily.  She  has  grown 
very  white.  Delaney  has  turned  away  to  the  window,  and 
is  apparently  lost  in  contemplation  of  the  exquisite  view 
ontside.  What  dreadful  things  is  this  kindly  old  lady 
going  to  say  next,  who  would  have  bitten  out  her  tongue 
rather  tha^i  say  anything — had  she  only  known. 

"  We're  getting  quite  impatient  for  a  wedding,  I  must 
tell  you,"  she  rattles  on  merrily.  "We  haven't  had  so 
much  as  a  ghost  of  one  in  the  parish  for  the  last  two  3'ears. 
You  should  come  to  the  rescue,  Denis.  Come,  now,  when 
is  it  to  be?" 

"Is  it  a  time  for  talking  of  marrying  and  giving  in 
marriage,"  replies  he,  facing  round  again  and  speaking 
with  really  a  marvelous  nonchalance,  "  with  wars  and 
rumors  of  wars  afloat?  Why,  the  very  air  is  thick  with 
the  odor  of  rebellion.  Never  has  Kerry  been  in  such  a 
disaffected  state." 

".Kerry?  Say  Ireland  and  be  done  with  it,"  says  Mrs. 
O'Shaughnessy. 

"  Well,  whose  fault  is  it?"  says  the  Duchess,  suddenly, 
a  little  fierily  waking  into  life.  "  Who  cares  for  Ireland, 
whether  she  swims  or  sinks?  Not  England.  She  is  a 
worry,  a  nuisance—no  more.  If  honorably  she  could  be 
got  rid  of  there  wouldn't  be  a  second's  delay  about  the  dis* 
posing  of  her.     She  is  an  incubus,  a  thing  at  which  to 


1T6  THE    DUCHESS. 

siiiug  the  shoulder.  But  has  she  ever  been  shown  fair 
play?  You  know/'  looking  at  Denis,  "  I  have  always  said 
that  poor  Ireland  has  been  slighted — kept  at  a  distance, 
as  it  were — whilst  the  rest  of  Great  Britain,  Scotland  not- 
ably, has  been  petted  ad  nauseam.  And  yet  I  am  sure  a 
little,  a  very  little  love,  would  have  made  her  loyal  to  thp 
backbone." 

''There's  a  rebel  for  you!''  says  Delaney,  laughing, 
glad  to  an  absurd  degree  that  anything  has  led  het  to 
spontaneously  address  him  again. 

"  Faith,  there's  a  deal  of  sense,  though,  in  what  she 
says,"  declares  Mrs.  O'Shaughnessy,  shaking  her  ringlets 
vigorously;  "  a  rare  good  smattering  of  reason.  Only  the 
day  is  too  hot  to  follow  it  up.  Let  us  come  out  and  see 
what  our  friends  in  the  open  air  are  doing." 


CHAPTEE  XVL 

"  Just  wlien  I  seemed  about  to  learn, 
Where  is  the  thread  now?    Off  again! 

The  old  trick!    Only  I  discern 
Infinite  passion,  and  the  pain 

Of  finite  hearts  that  yearn.' 

Not  very  much,  when  all  is  told.  The  day  is  too  warm 
for  that.  A  good  deal  of  tennis,  a  little  sauntering 
amongst  the  late  roses,  a  tremendous  amount  of  loungingj 
and  flirtation  at  will  The  afternoon  flies  by  almost  be- 
fore one  remembers  it  has  begun,  and  now  everybody  is 
lying  about,  rather  exhausted  from  doing  nothing,  an^ 


THE    DUCHESS.  117 

drinking  tea,  and  champagne,  and  divers  cups  with  an 
unfeigned  appreciation  of  their  merits. 

Colonel  O'Sliaughnessy,  a  large,  florid,  well-bred-look- 
ing man,  with  a  dictatorial  manner  and  the  kindest  heart 
in  the  world,  is  telling  an  old  and  thrilling  Indian  tale 
(born  of  his  years  in  Hyderabad)  to  a  select  companj^ 
His  wife,  at  a  few  yards'  distance,  is  giving  all  the  local 
gossip,  collected  since  her  return  yesterday,  to  a  pale  little 
woman,  who  seems  rather  upset  by  it.  Some  of  our  other 
friends  are  scattered  around,  and  Mr.  Greene,  who  makes 
no  secret  of  his  adoration,  is  lying  prone  at  the  feet  of  the 
Duchess.  The  colonel,  having  brought  his  tale  to  a  pitch 
that  is  positively  appalling,  winds  it  up  suddenly  with  all 
the  knowledge  of  a  clever  raconteur,  and  is  rewarded  by  a 
silence  that  is  half  hysterical  on  the  part  of  his  female 

audience. 

Suddenly  says  some  one — the  rector's  wife,  I  think — the 

little  pale  woman — 

"  Does  any  one  know  how  Mrs.  Brady  is  to-day?     I 

heard  she  was  ill,  but — " 

"  Yes.     I  called  there  this  morning,"  shouts  Colonel 

O'Shaughnessy — he  always  shouts  more  or  less.     **  She's 

far  from  well.     They  told  me  she  had  been  confined — " 

Here  a  most  inopportune  fit  of  coughing  overtakes  him. 
"  Confined?     What  are  you  talking   about,  colonel?" 

cries  the  wife  in  condemnation.     "  Why,  they  have  only 

been  mar — " 

Providentially  at  this  moment  her  cup  slips  along  its 

saucer  in  the  nasty,  treacherous  way  cups  will  at  times, 

and  Mrs.  O'Shaughnessv  makes  a  grab  at  it,  forgetful  in 


lis  THE    DUCHESS. 

her  fear  for  the  prune  silk  of  the  astonishmeut  and  horror 
that  possesses  her. 

"Confined  to  her  bed  with  a  bad  cold/'  roars  the 
colonel,  in  a  voice  suggestive  of  murder  and  with  a  com- 
plexion positively  apoplectic. 

There  is  a  dead  pause;  then  somebody  whispers  some- 
thing into  Mrs.  O'Siiaughnessy's  ear  who  appears  bewil- 
dered, and  somebody  else  gives  an  indignant  kick  to  Mr. 
Greene's  recumbent  form,  who  is  plainly  on  the  verge  of 
hysterics. 

"A  bad  cold,"  persists  the  colonel,  wildly.  "Called 
there — saw  her!  Nothing  worse  than  that,  I  give  you  my 
honor. " 

The  "  nothing  worse  than  that  "  is  the  last  straw,  and 
finishes  Mr.  Greene,  who  explodes  with  laughter  and  then 
rolls  over  and  bites  the  daisies  in  a  last  vain  endeavor  to 
restrain  his  ungodly  enjoyment.  But  Mrs.  O'Shaughnessy, 
who  has  at  last  mastered  the  real  meaning  of  tbe  thing, 
evidently  sees  no  reason  for  restraining  anytliing,  and  lean- 
ing back  in  her  chair  gives  way  to  mirth. 

"And  is  that  it?"  she  says.  "Bless  me,  what  a  mis- 
take I  made!"  And  off  she  goes  into  an  unlimited  num- 
ber of  cackles,  until  she  shakes  again.  Then  Miss  Cazalet 
is  seen  to  draw  gently  near,  and  as  mirth  has  a  trick  of 
dying  out  in  her  presence  once  more  a  decorous  tranquillity 
holds  sway.     Mr.  Wylding,  the  author,  is  with  her. 

"  One  can  see  I  scribble,"  he  is  saying,  in  his  delight- 
fully soft  voice.  "  Yet  when  people  look  at  me  they  some- 
times hesitate  (it  is  a  compliment,  I  assure  you);  I  am 
always  charmed  with  it,  and  I  can  almost  hear  them  say; 


THE    DUCHESS.  119 

'  He  IS  like  it,  of  course,  but  he  is  not  so  spiritual  as  I  im- 
agined. And  yet — '  You  can  read  the  rest  for  yourself. 
Is  it  uot?  It  is  all  in  my  uose,  I  think,''  with  a  delicious 
frankness,  "  which  is  of  a  goodly  length,  and  in  my  upi)er 
lip — have  you  noticed  my  upper  lip — which  is  distinctly  en 
suite." 

Miss  Cazalet  murmurs  some  inanity  or  other,  quite  un- 
worthy of  her,  her  mind  being  with  her  eyes,  which  are  far 
away  across  the  shaven  lawn,  where  stands  Delaney.  He 
is  conversing  with  some  one — she  can  not  see  whom — but 
some  one  in  white.  Presently  he  moves  a  little,  and  her 
pulses  grow  more  even  as  she  sees  that  the  woman  in  white 
is  not — Norah! 

A  voice  at  her  elbow  makes  her  start. 

"  Can  I  do  anything  for  you.  Duchess?**  The  voice  is 
Lord  Kilgarriff's,  and  Miss  Cazalet,  looking  abruptly 
round,  finds  that  Norah  is  sitting  almost  exactly  behind 
her. 

"Eh?  what?"  says  the  Duchess,  with  a  rather  absent 
air,  turning  to  Kilgarriff.  It  is  plain  the  tone,  not  the 
words,  have  reached  her  ears. 

"Miss  Delaney  —  why  this  abstraction?"  says  Mr. 
Greene,  in  accents  mildly  reproachful.  *'  Are  all  we  noth- 
ing to  you,  that  you  thus  wander  into  realms  of  fantasy? 
Come  back,  come  back,  I  entreat  you,  to  solid  earth  and 
us  and  cease  to  tread  in  spirit  immaterial  space." 

Norah,  thus  importuned,  turns  upon  him  a  smiling  face. 

*'  I  have  been  thinking,"  she  says,  "  that  I  should  like 
to  play  one  set-*'" 


120  THE    DUCHESS. 

"  With  me?"  exclaims  he,  rapturously,  scrambling  te 
his  feet.  "  Consider  it  done.  Now  to  find  two  others  on 
playful  thoughts  intent." 

"I  was  just  wishing  for  a  game  myself,"  says  Miss 
Cazalet,  amiably.  "  What  do  you  say?  You  and  Miss 
Delaney  against  Mr.  AVylding  and  me?" 

*'  I  should  be  so  charmed — so  delighted,*'  says  Wyld- 
ing,  "  but  there  is  this  one  trifling  obstacle  to  my  bliss — ^I 
don't  play. " 

"  If  I  might  aspire — "  simpers  Sir  Brand  rum,  turning 
a  languishing  eye  upon  the  blonde  beauty. 

"  To  what?"  asiis  Greene,  innocently. 

"  To — er — to  be  Miss  Cazalet's  partner  in  this  projected 
game  of  tennis,"  replies  the  baronet,  stiffly;  and  then  in  a 
lower  tone,  addressed  to  the  tall,  fair  goddess  at  his  side, 
"Oh!  that  I  dared  aspire  to  more — to  all." 

Miss  Cazalet  sweeps  her  cold  eyes  across  his  face  with  an 
insolence  indescribable.  This  man  —  this  old  man — to 
presume  to  hope  that  she  will  throw  over  Ventry  and 
Denis  for  him! 

"  Well,  is  it  a  match?"  says  Greene,  looking  at  her  with 
a  dry  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

"  If  you  will,"  returns  Miss  Cazalet,  indifferently,  ignor- 
ing his  evident  meaning;  "  Sir  Brandrum,  as  you  know,  is 
an  excellent — indeed  " — with  a  slow  glance  at  the  unfortu- 
nate baronet  from  under  her  half-closed  lids,  "  we  might 
safely  say  an  old  hand  at  it,  and  I — " 

"  You  are  indeed  an  enemy  to  fear,"  says  Greene,  with 
a  bow — Miss  Cazalet  being  the  acknowledged  head  of  the 


THE    DUCHESS.  Ivi 

women  players  in  tlie  county.  "  Still  if  you  will  deign  to 
give  us  a  beating,  I  think  Miss  Delaney  and  I  would  like 
to  receive  it.*' 

Norah,  catching  his  eye,  laughs  a  little.  As  it  hapjjens, 
Katherine  and  she  have  never  yet  played  one  against  the 
other,  and  though  comments  on  the  excellence  of  Miss 
Delaney's  performances  on  the  tennis  courts  have  reached 
Katherine's  ears  she  had  treated  such  praise  as  a  pitiful 
truckling  to  the  beauty  that  even  she  confessed  to  see. 

When,  therefore,  the  sets  came  to  an  end,  leaving  the 
Duchess  flushed  delicately  and  undeniably  victress,  there 
comes  a  light  into  Miss  Cazalet^s  pale-blue  eyes  hardly  to 
be  admired.  She  has  been  overthrown  in  public  favor  by 
this  her  foe. 

"  You  have  triumphed  to-day  in  this  matter, ''  she  says, 
in  a  soft  under-tone,  looking  with  a  smile  into  Norah's 
large  dark  eyes.  "  It  is  a  sign,  you  think,  an  indication 
that  you  will  triumph  always!    But  I  tell  you  no. " 

The  delicate  flush  dies  out  of  Norah's  cheeks.  She 
grows  very  pale.  It  is  impossible  to  misunderstand  what 
has  been  said,  what  has  been  meant.  Has  this  girl — who 
towers  above  her  like  her  evil  genius,  white  and  fair 
though  she  be — can  she  have  guessed  her  cruel  secret?  has 
she  pierced  into  her  soul  and  read  there  the  love  that  was 
reared  in  pain,  and  yet  thrives  with  a  vigor  that  defies  all 
hope  of  death?  This  sudden  fear  blanches  her  cheek,  but 
through  it  all  there  runs  a  horror  of  the  coarseness  that 
has  permitted  such  words  to  be  spoken. 

"  Always  to  triumph?  No,"  she  says,  coldly,  and  with 
admirable  self-possession.       "  That  is  given  to  few — to 


122  THE    DUCHESS. 

none  perhaps.  And  there  are  days,  I  confess,  when  my 
serving  is  a  very  himentable  faihire.'' 

**  Miss  Cazalet,  I  think  Madame  Delaney  wants  you — if 
I  might  be  permitted?'*  says  Sir  Braudrum  at  this  instant, 
who  generally  spoke  in  half  sentences. 

Katheriue  moves  away  with  him,  that  curious  light  still 
within  her  eyes,  and  Norali,  feeling  tired,  dispirited,  heart- 
sick, turns  round  and  walks  aimlessly  in  the  other  direc- 
tion. 

In  the  center  of  the  path  she  has  chosen  she  sees  Denis, 
and  as  he  moves  a  little  to  one  side  to  let  her  pass  he  looks 
full  at  her  with  a  kindly  smile.  If  she  sees  it  she  makes 
no  response  to  it,  and  only  acknowledges  his  presence  there 
by  a  little  faint  bow.  Then  she  has  passed  him.  And 
then  a  second  later  she  knows  he  is  beside  her,  bending 
down  a  little  as  if  trying  to  look  into  her  face. 

"  May  we  not  be  friends,  my  little  cousin?"  asks  he, 
gently.  She  can  see  that  he  is  pale,  and  that  there  is  a 
great  weariness  in  his  miserable  eyes. 

"  Friends!  Why,  that  we  are,  surely,'*  replies  she,  her 
glance  upon  the  ground,  after  that  one  swift  upward  look 
that  is  now  hurting  him  so  fiercely. 

"  I  think  not.  I  fear  not.  Everything,"  sadly,  ''  is  so 
changed.  At  home,  there,  in  Ballyliinch,  where  first  we 
met,  you  were  so  different." 

"  Ah,  there  I  was  in  my  father's  house,'*  with  a  desper- 
ate effort  at  serenity.  "  Then  it  behooved  me  to  be  civil 
to  my  father's  guest.**  The  words  fall  from  her  like 
atones.     Oh,  why  must  they  be  said?    What  evil  fate  has 


THE    DUCHE3S.  123. 

thrust  this  burden  on  her?  But  pride,  pride— what  is  it  a 
woman  will  not  sacrifice  for  that! 

"  What  do  you  wish  me  to  understand?"  asks  he,  grow- 
ing, if  possible,  a  shade  paler.  "  That  all  those  sweet  days 
there  were  a  mere  wearying  of  the  flesh  to  you?  That  you 
suffered  me,  indeed,  but  that  no  honest  feeling  of  friend- 
ship toward  me — that  feeling,"'  hotly,  "  to  which  I  would 
have  sworn — ever  existed  in  your  breast?  Norah!  Is  that 
the  truth?     Is  that  your  meaning?" 

"  Take  it  as  you  will/'  says  she,  icily,  although  her  lips 
are  trembling.  "You  should  not  have  asked  the  ques- 
tion." 

They  had  stopped  in  the  center  of  a  grass  j^lot,  rather 
deserted  at  the  moment,  and  now  she  looks  restlessly  past 
him,  and  from  side  to  side,  as  if  seeking  mutely  a  way  of 
escape. 

"  I  trouble  you.  You  would  leave  me,"  he  says,  unut- 
terable despair  in  his  tone.  As  he  speaks  he  moves  a 
little  to  one  side,  as  though  to  let  her  pass. 

"  No,  no.  You  must  not  think  that,"  murmurs  she, 
faintly.  She  lifts  her  gaze  to  his,  and  he  can  see  that,  all 
at  once  as  it  were,  the  combative  look  has  gone  from  her 
eyes.  Riven  as  he  is  with  counter  emotions  he  can  see 
that. 

"  Norahl"  he  exclaims,  in  a  low  piercing  tone,  catching 
her  hand. 

And  then  it  is  all  over,  and  nothing  is  left  him  but  the 
remembrance  of  the  frown — the  passionately  contemptu- 
ous glance  of  those  gray  eyes — the  haughty  curl  of  the  lips. 
She  is  half-way  across  the  lawn  now,  moving  quickly,  as  if 


124  THE    DUCHESS. 

a  little  frightened,  to  where  Kilgarriff  is  standing.  There 
is  something  in  her  whole  air  that  seems  to  Delaney — 
standing  there  white,  angry,  stricken — suggestive  of  a  de- 
sire for  help,  for  protection!  To  protect  her  from  him! 
In  that  lies  the  sting — the  bitterness  of  it.  And  to  go  to 
Kilgarriff,  of  all  men!  What,  after  all,  if  that  old  friend- 
ship was  ripening  into  something  warmer,  if— even  as  she 
had  refused  him — the  divine  si^ark  that  lies  in  every  heart 
had  broken  into  flame?  How  often  does  a  foolish  child, 
frightened,  puzzled,  by  some  strange,  new  experience,  an- 
swer at  random,  scarce  knowing  its  own  mind! 

And  yet— and  yet — how  could  he  forget?  Once  again 
she  stands  upon  the  stepping-stones — once  again  she  sways 
and  trembles — and  once  again — alas!  alas!  for  the  mourn- 
ful sweetness  of  a  past  moment  never  to  be  known  again — 
she  is  within  his  arms.  She  lies  upon  his  breast;  willing- 
ly, he  feels  and  knows;  against  his  heart  her  heart  beats. 
And  then  the  pretty  head  thrown  back,  the  eyes — such  eyes 
— looking  with  that  swift,  shy  rapture  into  his.  It  is  a 
momentary  glance  indeed — a  flash.  But,  oh!  what  a 
world  of  tender  love  it  holds! 

Yes,  she  loves  him.  That  one  sweet  glance  had  be- 
trayed her.  Though  twenty  thousand  demons  yelled  the 
contrary  in  his  ear  he  would  not  believe  it.  So  fair  a 
building  could  hold  within  it  no  blot,  no  falsity.  A  thrill 
of  passionate  joyousness  strikes  him,  as  memory  holds  him 
captive  at  her  will;  and  then  all  at  once  she  releases  him, 
and  the  present  stands  cold  and  bleak  before  him,  without 
hope  or  chance  of  escape  from  the  thralldom  into  which 
he  has  sold  himself,  not  knowing;  there  is  Norah  a  little 


THE    DL'CHESS.  J  25 

way  off,  smiling  into  Kilgarriff's  face,  a  touch  of  positive 
relief  on  her  lovely  face.  He  feels  stunned,  inanimate. 
How  can  he  go  on  like  this?  How  live  out  the  long  life 
bBfore  him?  He  rouses  himself  angrily,  but  fails  to  shake 
off  the  dread  depression  that  has  seized  upon  him.  It  is 
absurd,  ridiculous,  he  knows;  yet  somehow  he  feels  fright- 
ened at  the  length  of  days  stretching  out  before  his  mental 
view;  days  colorless,  verdureless,  void  of  dew  or  any  other 
gracious  visitation.  What  is  it — what  has  happened  to 
him? 


CHAPTEE  XVII. 

The  last  guest  has  departed;  only  the  house-party  is  left 
to  enjoy  the  glory  of  the  dying  sunset.  Lounging  about 
on  the  shaven  grass,  or  else  cozily  nestling  down  in  the 
garden-chairs,  they  seem  one  and  all  loath  to  leave  the 
sweetness  of  the  evening  to  go  in-doors  and  dress  for  dinner. 

There  is  almost  an  unwonted  stillness  over  everything; 
a  calm  that  bodes  well  for  the  peaceful  night,  that  already 
shows  signs  of  descending  upon  them.  A  little  tired,  a 
little  languid,  they  are  sitting  voiceless — a  sense  of  such 
pleasurable  laziness  upon  them  as  forbids  the  desire  for 
speech — when  suddenly,  from  some  unknown  distance, 
sound  reaches  them;  sound  that  ever  gathers  in  volume, 
and  at  last  disperses  rudely  the  delicious  touch  of  rest  in 
which  they  had  been  indulging.  Nearer  and  nearer  comes 
this  unpardonable  break  upon  their  tranquillity,  resolving 
itself  presently  into  the  measured  tread  of  many  feet  and 
the  dull  muttering  of  sullen  voices.     Madame  starts  per- 


126  THE    DUCHESS. 

ceptibly  and  grows  a  little  pale,  and  one  swift  glance  she 
gives  at  Denis,  as  round  the  curve  of  the  avenue  an  un- 
couth crowd  of  half-frighteueLl,  hulf-angrj'  peasants,  comes 
with  a  rush  as  if  pushed  on  by  those  behind. 

It  is  one  of  the  very  frequent  scenes  of  which  some  of  us 
have  been  eye-witnesses,  and  of  which  we  all  have  read  in 
the  daily  papers,  -the  monthlies  and  the  magazines.  A 
band  of  sullen,  ill-looking  men,  headed  by  their  parish 
priest,  in  this  instance  a  well-meaning  man,  though  that 
can  not  be  said  of  others,  with  no  honest  entreaty  on  their 
lips,  but  rather  a  demand  for  a  still  further  reduction  of 
the  rents  that  already  have  been  most  generously  reduced. 

Delaney  seeing  them — and  that  they  have  come  to  a  halt 
on  a  central  part  of  the  graveled  sweep  before  the  hall 
door,  that  had  full  command  of  that  part  of  the  lawn  on 
which  he  and  his  guests  are  seated,  moves  right  from  his 
lounging  position  on  the  grass  and  goes  forward  to  meet 
them.  The  Duchess,  as  he  passes  her,  can  see  that  he  has 
changed  color,  and  a  cold,  hard  expression  has  settled 
round  his  lips. 

*'  Well?"  he  says,  icily,  addressing  himself  exclusively  to 
the  priest,  and  treating  the  others  as  though  they  were  out- 
side his  vision.  His  tone  is  uncompromising,  his  whole  air 
studiously  contemptuous. 

And  then  the  priest  begins  his  speech,  already  prepared, 
and  which  it  would  be  useless  to  reproduce  here.  The  peo- 
ple's wants  and  wrongs,  set  forth  in  florid  language,  and 
yet  with  a  keen  edge  of  heartfelt,  eloquent  compassion  to 
it  that  touches  Norah,  but  leaves  Delaney  as  stern  and  un- 
moved as  before.     The  demand  for  redress;  the  speakar-'s 


THE    DUCHESS.  127 

eonyiction  that  they,  his  parishioners,  have  it  not  in  their 
power  to  pay  the  money  said  by  the  law  to  be  due,  but 
which  in  the  sight  of  Heaven  and  man  is  an  unjust  taxa- 
tion.    And  so  on — and  on. 

It  is  a  strange  scene,  full  of  incongruities.  On  one  side 
extreme  poverty  and  general  demoralization;  on  the  other 
riches  and  all  the  little  refinements  that  go  to  make  up  a 
well-to-do,  self-satisfied  society.  There,  the  ill-dressed 
(although  each  man  in  it  is  wearing  his  Sunday^s  best)  ill- 
looking  crowd,  shuffling  together  in  a  nervous,  treacherous 
fashion,  half  uneasy,  wholly  vindictive.  Before  them, 
their  spokesman  as  it  were,  their  lean,  ascetic  parish  j)riest> 
Father  Doolin,  a  slight,  emaciated  man  with  dark  piercing 
eyes,  that  now  are  aglow  with  fervid  eloquence.  Facing 
him,  the  tall,  handsome,  3'oung  man,  faultlessly  attired, 
with  head  well  up,  and  stern,  finely  cut  mouth,  and  aris- 
tocrat written  on  every  line  of  him;  and  behind  all,  the 
fashionably  dressed  few,  gazing  with  well-bred  amazement 
at  the  picture  of  which  they  make  a  part= 

Father  Doolin  has  brought  his  speech  to  a  rather  abru5)t 
termination.  It  is  difficult  to  be  diffuse  or  explanatory  or 
persuasive  with  those  handsome,  unsympathetic  eyes  fixed 
upon  one,  as  though  compelling  a  speedy  finish  to  one's 
harangue;  and  now  that  it  has  reached  its  end  Delaney 
throws  out  his  hand  with  an  openly  aggressive  gesture. 

**  It  is  useless,"  he  says,  taking  advantage  of  this  unex- 
pected break  in  Father  Dooliti's  appeal,  "  your  coming  tc 
me  on  this  errand.  To  those,"  turning  cold,  angry  e3'es 
upon  the  crowd,  "  who  have  shown  no  mercy,  no  mercy 
will  I  show.  ** 


/23  tHE    DUCHESS. 

**  Take  care,  sir/*  says  the  priest,  in  a  sort  of  sharp, 
involuntary  way,  as  if  a  little  frightened. 

**  Do  you  threaten  me,  sir?"  asks  Delaney,  turning  upon 
him  fiercel}'.  "  Nay,  then,  threaten  as  you  'Aill.  What  I 
have  said  remains.  These  people,**  with  a  light  and  scorn- 
ful wave  of  his  hand  in  their  direction,  "have  chosen  to 
defy  me,  even  to  the  extent  of  killing  my  trusted  agent; 
let  them  abide  by  that  choice.  I  shall  not  abate  one  frac- 
tion more  of  my  just  dues.  I  have  said  this  before,  pub- 
licly. I  say  it  again.  Twenty  per  cent,  has  been  offered 
and  refused.  No  other  offer  shall  be  made.  And  I  may 
as  well  say  now,  too,  as  the  opportunity  presents  itself, 
that  it  was  against  my  better  judgment,  my  sense  of  jus- 
tice, that  such  grace  was  ever  shown.*' 

An  angry  growl  rises  from  the  crowd,  and  the  Duchess 
blanches  a  little  and  makes  a  quick  movement,  as  though 
8he  would  rise  from  her  seat. 

Then  a  tall  man  steps  from  the  crowd  and  stands  in 
front  of  it,  as  though  he  feels  himself  to  be  their  leader — 
though  perhaps  an  unacknowledged  one. 

He  is  a  great  powerful  fellow,  with  a  rather  brutal  ap- 
pearance. A  heavy  bull-like  neck,  a  lowering  brow  and  a 
type-  of  feature  that  suggests  strongly  that  of  the  go- 
rilla. 

*'  Say  forty  per  cent,  an*  we  might  be  listenin*  to  ye,*' 
says  this  giant  with  a  threatening  air. 

"  Stand  back,  Moloney,**  says  Father  Doolin,  with  a 
frown. 

^'  Why  would  I,  thin?    Why  shouldn*t  he  hear  the  truth 


THE    DUCHESSo  129 

for  wanst  in  his  life?  If  you  won't  sjoake  ifc  I  will.  Why 
shouldn't  I  tell  him  what  we  all  think  of  him  an'  his  come- 
rades?'' 

"  Why  not,  indeed?"  says  Delaney,  with  a  curious 
laugh.  "  There  is,  however,  something  even  more  than 
that  that  you  might  tell  me."  He  goes  a  step  nearer  to 
Moloney  and  fixes  his  gaze  on  him.  "  The  name  of  him 
who  murdered  Mr.  Meredith  I" 

A.  convulsive  shudder  seems  to  run  through  the  ragged 
crowd.  Many  angry  faces  show  themselves  there;  many 
carefully  expressionless. 

"Ha!  That  allusion  troubles  you,"  cries  Denis,  with 
ill-suppressed  passion.  "  That  went  straight  home.  Does 
there  stand  one  innocent  man  amongst  you,  I  wonder;  one 
who  did  not  know  of  or  connive  at  that  devilish  deed? 
Until  the  murderer  is  given  up  to  me  I  sha'n't  believe  it. 
I  sent  that  kind,  good  man  amongst  you,  that  lenient, 
loyal  gentleman,  my  own  best  friend — who  had,  I  swear  it 
to  you  " — with  growing  vehemence — "  your  interests  most 
honestly  at  heart.  He  came — he  accepted  you  as  his 
friends.  Oh!  if  you  could  have  seen  his  letters  to  me, 
how  he  trusted,  how  he  believed  in  you,  how  his  heart  was 
wrapjjed  up  in  a  scheme  that  was  to  do  you  and  yours  a 
life-long  good!  And  you — you,  for  reward,  most  foully, 
most  brutally  destroyed  him!*'  He  draws  a  long  breath; 
his  eyes  are  aflame.  *'  His  blood,"  he  says,  in  a  low  tone, 
"  his  blood  forever  cries  to  me  for  vengeance.  I  declare 
to  you,"  throwing  one  hand  heavenward,  ^' I  shall  never 
test  until  I  bring  his  murderer  to  the  scaffold." 

"Sirl     Think^      Cousiderl'*   says   the  priest,   hastily. 

6 


130  THK    DUCHESS. 

•'  Can  you  not  leftve  him  to  time — to  his  own  conscience, 
for  revenge?" 

"  His  conscience?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  His,  surely.  Be  it  soon  or  be  it  late,  be  as- 
sured that  the  memory  of  that  awful  crime  will  some  time 
seize  upon  that  man  and  burn  into  his  soul  like  a  red-liot 
iron.  Sir,  I  entreat  you,  be  content  with  that  certainty, 
and  do  not  punish  the  innocent  for  the  guilty.** 

"  No.  I  shall  be  content  only  with  a  justice  that  I 
shall  see,*'  replies  Delaney,  grimly.  "  A  life  for  a  life  is 
but  meager  satisfaction  in  this  case,  for  what  dozen  lives 
amongst  that  sordid  crew  '* — indicating  the  peasants  by  a 
gesture  full  of  withering  contempt — ''  could  compensate 
for  the  life  they  took.  '* 

"  Each  man,  Mr.  Delaney,*'  says  the  priest  solemnly,  re- 
provingly, "  has  his  own  soul.  That  is  as  precious  to  the 
lowest  as  to  the  highest.  And  you — are  you  just?  Is  it 
justice  you  seek  or  only  vengeance?  Is  it  right  ** — with 
agitation — "  to  punish  the  many  for  the  few?  I  beg  you 
to  hear  me,  sir,  in  a  kindlier  spirit;  I  entreat  you  to  be- 
lieve that  they  are  anxious  to  be  reconciled  to  you — to — ** 

"  I  respect  you,  Mr.  Doolin,**  says  Delaney,  interrupt- 
ing him  gently,  but  deliberately.  "  I  honor  yeu  indeed, 
because  I  know  you  to  be  a  good  man,  who  is  wiastiug  his 
life  in  a  vain  endeavor  to  reform  a  lio|)elessly  vicious  peo- 
ple—" 

"  Not  vain,  I  hope,  sir,**  protests  the  priest,  in  a  tone 
of  deep  distress. 

"So  I  at  least  believe,'*  with  a  slight  bow,  "and  ye*: 
you  would  ask  me  to  regard  these  people  as  being  desirous 


THE    DUCHE88.  187 

of  returning  to  their  ullegiance,  to  a  sense  of  their  duty 
toward  me,  their  hmdlord,  when  you  must  know  what 
happened  at  that  farm  at  Grillagh  only  last  week.  Was 
the  brutal  mutilation  of  a  number  of  helpless  cattle  a  sign 
of  their  desire  to  be  on  good  terras  with  me?  I  confess  it 
looked  to  me  more  like  a  declaration  of  war.  1  really  be- 
lieve/' raising  his  voice  so  as  to  be  heard  by  all,  "  it  was 
meant  for  a  threat.  But  threats  to  me,"  with  a  short,  in- 
solent laugh,  '*  are,  I  assure  you,"  addressing  himself  with 
an  aggravating  air  to  the  people,  "  idle  as  the  wind.'' 

Again  that  angry  murmur  rises  from  the  heart  of  the 
crowd. 

**  The  wind  isn't  always  idle.  It  has  overthrown  many 
a  strong  man  before  now,"  says  Moloney,  ominously,  a  vil- 
lainous scowl  upon  his  brow. 

"If,  sir,  you  would  make  some  further  abatement,** 
goes  on  the  priest,  hurriedly,  as  if  trying  to  drown  this 
mutinous  speech;  "  anything — say  thirty,  even  twenty-five 
per  cent." 

"  Not  a  penny,**  briefly,  "  as  matters  now  stand.  One 
hope,  however,  I  still  hold  out.  Let  them  deliver  into  my 
hand  the  man  who  assassinated  Mr.  Meredith,  and  I  may 
— I  do  not  promise,  remember— but  I  then  might  be  in- 
duced to  listen  to  their  complaints;  until  then,  nothing. 
You  hear,  all  of  you,"  speaking  in  a  clear,  cold,  steady 
voice;  "  and  I  give  you  notice  that  you  have  from  this 
until  November,  only,  to  settle  your  rents;  after  that  I 
shall  evict  the  non-payers,  man  by  man." 

There  is  somotliing  about  his  manner  that  precludes  the 
idea  of  change.     What  he  has  said  that  he  will  surely  do. 


133  THE    DUCHESS. 

There  is  no  appeal  from  that  sternly  delivered  fiat.  A  hoarse 
cry  runs  through  the  crowd  from  mouth  to  mouth,  partly 
fear,  partly  hatred.  There  is  something  at  once  so  sav- 
age, yet  so  thrilling  in  it  that  mvoluntarily  one  or  two  of 
the  men  lounging  on  the  lawn  get  up  hastily,  and  a  mag- 
nificent old  hound  that  lies  stretched  at  Delaney's  feet 
springs  from  the  ground  with  a  growl  and  stands  trem- 
bling as  if  waiting  for  the  word  to  spring  upon  the  foe. 

At  this  Moloney  makes  a  fierce  gesture,  and  the  dog, 
losing  all  control  over  its  awakened  temper,  with  a  bound 
reaches  him.  With  hair  bristling  and  lips  drawn  back, 
showing  the  fangs  within,  he  looks  a  more  formidable 
enemy  than  he  really  is,  and  Moloney,  yielding  to  a  vile 
impulse  and  a  longing  for  revenge,  lifts  his  heavy  foot  and 
gives  the  poor  old  brute  a  cruel  kick. 

With  a  sharp  yell  the  hound  rolls  over  on  the  gravel,  his 
leg  broken. 

"  Damn  you!  you  scoundrel!^*  cries  Delaney,  forgetful 
of  everything  in  his  mad  rage  as  he  sees  the  dog  lying  in 
mortal  pain  before  him.  It  is  his  favorite  dog,  old  now, 
but  a  faithful  creature  who  has  had  a  good  share  of  his 
master's  heart  for  many  a  long  day.  In  a  second  Denis 
has  flung  himself  upon  Moloney,  and  seizing  him  by  the 
collar,  in  spite  of  his  powerful  struggle,  shakes  him  to  and 
fro  as  a  terrier  might  a  rat,  and  then  dashes  him  heavilj  to 
tiie  ground. 

For  a  minute  or  two  he  lies  there  stunned;  Delaney 
looking  down  upon  him,  pale,  panting  more  with  passion 
than  fatigue.  Then  he  recovers  himself  and  rises  slowly 
to  his  feet.     One  dark  malignant  glance  he  c^sts  at  O^* 


THB    DUCHESS.  183 

Umey,  one  bitter  curse  escapes  his  lips,  and  then  he  movea 
away,  followed  by  the  crowd,  now  grown  strangely  silent. 

Only  the  old  priest  remains,  and  turns  in  an  agitated 
fashion  to  madame,  who,  with  some  of  the  others,  has  hur- 
ried up,  looking  pale  and  horrified. 

**  I  wish  he  had  not  done  that,  madame,"  said  Father 
Dooliu  in  a  trembling  voice.  "  It  was  most  unfortunate. 
They  are  already  much  incensed  against  him;  and — I  wish 
he  had  not  done  that. " 

"  I  wish  he  bad  not,  indeed,''  eays  madame,  who  is  very 
white. 

**  And  I  wish  he  had  done  more,  **  cried  Miss  Blake, 
looking  up  with  flashing  eyes  from  where  she  and  the 
Duchess,  with  Delaney,  are  kneeling  over  the  injured  dog. 
*'  I  wish  he  had  killed  the  cowardly  wretch  who  dealt  that 
blow  to  this  poor  brute. " 

Tears  are  standing  thickly  in  her  eyes,  and  seeing  them, 
Kilgarriff,  who  is  never  proof  against  beauty  in  distress, 
goes  up  to  her.  The  Duchess,  sitting  on  the  gravel,  has 
got  the  dog*s  head  in  her  lap;  warm  drops  are  falling  from 
her  eyes  on  his  handsome  old  head.  The  poor  brute,  more 
hurt  than  they  at  first  had  thought,  is  dying;  even  as 
Denis  calls  to  him,  in  the  hope  of  cheering  him,  and  Sir 
Philip,  who  is  a  clever  man  about  dogs,  is  examining  tiie 
broken  leg,  he  gives  a  groan  or  two,  and  with  a  last  vain 
effort  to  struggle  to  his  feet  and  go  to  his  master,  drops 
back  dead. 

It  is  after  all  only  a  very  small  affair;  the  death  of  a  dog 
only.  A  mere  trifle  beside  the  bloody  deeds  that,  night  by 
night  and  day  by  day  ^e  enacted  in  all  parts  of  ill-famed 


184  THE    DUCHE88. 

Kerry,  whilst  our  English  protectors  talk  and  talk  and 
talk  at  the  other  and  safe  side  of  the  water  and  do  noth- 
ing. The  death  of  a  dog,  and  the  knocking  down  of  his 
elayer.  Yet,  insigniQcant  as  all  this  sounds,  it  beftf»  in 
the  future  bitter  fruitl 


CHAPTER  XVin. 

"  Let  it  be  now  level    All  my  soul  breaks  forth. 
How  I  do  love  youl    Give  my  love  its  wayJ 

Grant  me  my  heaven  now." 


**  NoRAH,  may  I  have  the  pleasure  of  this  dance?*'  says 
Denis,  gravely,  looking  down  at  his  cousin.  The  old 
familiar  "  Duchess  "  has  long  been  laid  aside. 

Madame's  calico  ball  has  come  off  at  last  in  spite  of 
many  delays.  It  is  now  October,  warm  and  bright  on  its 
pet  day,  lowering  and  dark  enough  on  the  others.  To- 
night, however,  is  beyond  expectation,  lovely  and  mild 
as  though  a  last  breath  of  the  dead  summer  had  been 
wafted  to  it  by  spirit  hands.  All  the  gardens  are  aglow 
with  colored  lamps,  poor  counterfeits  of  the  myriad  stars 
that  deck  the  firmament  above,  where,  too,  Diana  sails  in 
perfect  splendor.  It  is  an  ideal  night,  balmy,  and  calm  as 
death  itself,  with  no  sound  save  the  whispering  of  the  lime- 
trees  under  the  tender  moonlight  and  the  far-off  breaking 
of  the  waves  upon  the  pebbly  shore. 

"With  pleasure,"  responds   the   Duchess,  coldly,   not 


THE    DUCHESS.  135 

iooking  at  him.  She  is  staring  past  him,  with  unseeing 
eyes,  however,  very  pale,  but  lovely  as  a  dream,  in  the 
quaint  costume  she  wears.  She  is  a  very  exquisite  ''  Miss 
Muffiet  '*  in  her  short-waisted  gown  of  highly  assthetic 
saffron  tint,  a  very  big  mob  cap,  and  long  soft  gloves  that 
reach  up  to  her  white  shoulder,  and  then  gently  wrinkle 
all  the  way  down  again  from  that  to  her  wrist.  A  more 
admirable  picture  than  she  makes  it  would  be  impossible 
to  conceive. 

She  is  without  doubt  the  belle  of  the  evening,  though 
Katherine  Cazalet,  who  is  supremely  lovely  as  "  Queen  of 
Hearts, '^  in  long  trailing  skirts  of  white  and  gold,  runs  her 
hard.  Miss  Blake,  too,  as"  My  Pretty  Maid,*'  is  charm- 
ing; and  Lady  Glandore  a  thing  of  beauty  as  "  Mistress 
Mary.*' 

The  Duchess,  indeed,  seems  quite  transformed.  A  brill- 
iant fire  has  lit  itself  in  each  of  her  great  gray  eyes,  and 
though  her  cheeks  have  turned  strangely  white  within  the 
last  few  minutes  her  lips  still  are  crimson. 

"  But  to  dance!"  she  says,  still  not  looking  at  him.  *'  I 
am  tired  of  dancing.  Is  there  no  place  to  be  found  for 
the  sole  of  one's  tired  foot  this  evening?" 

By  intuition  he  knows  that  she  will  not  suffer  his  arm 
round  her  waist,  and  a  bitter  pain  beats  within  his  heart; 
pain  mingled  with  an  anger  as  bitter. 

**  If  you  are  tired  we  can  sit  down  in  one  of  the  conserva- 
tories, or,  better  still,  in  one  of  the  gardens,*'  he  says,  as 
calmly  as  he  can.  "  Will  that  suit  you,  or  shall  I  give  up 
my  place  to  another?" 

"  That  is  a  very  rude  sneech,  isn't  it?"  says  the  Duch- 


136  THE    DUCHESa 

em,  at  last  tnrning  her  eyes  on  his.  **  And  might  almost 
jead  me  to  believe—** 

**No** — interrupting  her  with  a  sternness  that  yet  ia 
agitated — '*  you  coujd  never  believe  that!"  tie  draws  her 
hand  with  a  touch  of  determination  within  his  arm,  and 
moves  toward  a  door  on  his  left.  This  leads  to  a  con- 
servatory. Entering  it,  they  come  to  an  open  glass  door 
beyond,  that  opens  ou  to  a  veranda.  Three  or  four  steps 
lead  from  this  to  the  terrace  beneath,  which  in  turn  gives 
access  to  the  gardens  glowing  in  the  moonlight. 

'*  "What  a  lovely  night!"  says  the  Duchess,  looking 
round  her,  evidently  with  a  view  to  making  conversation. 
There  is  a  slight  touch  of  nervousness  in  her  manner,  a 
soupgon  of  uneasiness. 

*'  Yes.  I  am  glad  it  has  turned  out  fine.  Such  a  mere 
chance  as  it  was.  You  are  enjoying  yourself?"  with  a 
steady  glance  at  her. 

"  So  much!"  with  enthusiasm.  **  I  hardly  thought  it 
possible  that  one  could  compress  such  an  amount  of 
thorough  enjoyment  into  one  short  evening.  Oh,  yes.  I 
am  feeling  absurdly  happy. " 

"  You  should,**  bitterly.  '*  The  right  is  all  your  own. 
You  have  the  world  at  your  feet.*' 

"  The  world!    A  large  statement.** 

"  Not  so  large  as  it  sounds.  Each  of  us  has  a  world  of 
his  own  in  which  to  know  grief  or  joy;  your  world  is  a 
most  submissive  one;  it  owns  itself  captive  to  your  will.'* 

*'  Does  it?'*  with  a  little  unmirthful  laugh.  "  And  who 
are  my  captives?" 

**  The  question  is  not  like  you,**  says  he,  bitterly.    *'  But 


THE    DUCHESS.  137 

you  are  so  changed,  so  different  from  the  cousin  I  once 
knew,  that —  Is  it  to  gratify  your  vanity  you  ask  it? 
Shall  I  speak  of  Greene — of  Kilgarriff — of — " 

'*  Pray  don't,  if  you  want  to  make  yourself  interesting; 
I  know  quite  as  much  of  them  as  I  wish  to  know/' 

''  Is  that  true,  Norah?  Is  that  slighting  tone  honest? 
Am  I  really  to  believe  that — they  all — that  Kilgarriff  is  of 
no  account  in  your  eyes?" 

"  Why  should  you  seek  to  believe  anything  of  that 
sort?"  demands  she,  coldly,  lifting  large  resentful  eyes  to 
his.  "  Are  you  my  guardian,  my — my  brother,  that  you 
thus  speak?" 

"You  do  not  deny,  then,"  exclaims  he,  recklessly, 
"  that  there  is  now,  at  all  events,  something  between  you 
and  Kilgarriff. "  There  is  such  passionate  anguish  in  his 
tone  that  had  her  own  heart  been  free  from  care  she  must 
have  condoned  his  words. 

"  This  is  an  examination  to  which  I  refuse  to  be  subject- 
ed," says  she,  lightly  enough,  but  with  an  angry  glance. 
Her  heart  is  beating  wildly,  painfully;  a  fear  of  his  next 
words  is  oppressing  her,  with  that  a  vehement  indignation 
that  he— engaged  to  and  doubtless  in  love  with  another 
woman,  as  he  is — should,  dare  to  thus  take  her  to  task. 

"  It  is  true — I  have  no  right  to  speak/'  says  Delaney, 
controlling  himself  by  a  visible  effort.  "  But  you  are  very 
young,  and  much  as  you  may  dislike  the  idea  I  am  in  a 
sense  your  guardian  whilst  you  remain  here." 

"  You  are  not  my  guardian,  here  or  elsewhere.  You," 
with  a  cold,  steady  glance,  "  are  nothing  to  me.  Piease 
understand  that  at  once.     I  am  under  my  aunt's  care,  not 


138  THE    DUCHESS. 

yours.  If  I  thought  otherwise  I  should  not  remain  an 
hour  longer  under  this  roof.  I  can  not  permit  you  to  in- 
terfere with  me  in  any  way.'' 

*'  Not  even  for — " 

'*  Not  in  any  way,"  haughtily.  "  Now/'  with  a  slight 
curl  of  her  lip,  "  if  you  have  quite  finished  your  im- 
promptu lecture,  I  should  be  glad  to  return  to  the  house." 

"  I  have  not  finished,"  breaks  he  out  fiercely,  goaded  to 
quicker  wrath  by  that  last  unfriendly  glance.  ' '  I  have 
still  to  ask  you  by  what  right  you  treat  me  as  you  do. 
What  have  I  done  that  I  should  be  placed  beneath  a  ban — 
that  1  should  receive  from  you  none  but  uncourteous  words 
and  looks?     Not  so  many  weeks  ago — " 

"  Hush,"  says  she  in  a  low  but  peremptory  tone. 

"  No.     You  shall  hear  me.     Why  should  I  be  silent?" 

"  I  warn  you,"  says  she,  in  the  same  intense  way,  speak- 
ing almost  under  her  breath. 

"  And  I  refuse  to  listen.  I  tell  you  I  can  not  live  this 
thing  out;  I  must  end  it  one  way  or  the  other.  You  know 
— ^you  must — that  if  you  will  say  but  one  word — one — I — '' 

"  Are  you  mad,  that  you  speak  to  me  like  tliis?"  ex- 
claims she,  recoiling  from  him.  There  is  horror  and  con- 
demnation and — something  else — in  her  glance.  Is  it  de- 
spair? She  leans  heavily  against  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  and 
puts  back  both  her  arms  as  if  to  hold  and  cling  to  it.  "  I 
don't  pretend  to  misunderstand  you,"  she  goes  on  pres- 
ently, "  but  what  I  really  fail  to  see  is  why  I  should  say 
that  word.  Do  you  know?"  with  a  faint  and  most  unkind 
gmile.     "  Can  you  tell  me?" 

"Norah!" 


THE    DUCHESS.  139 

"  Na}^,  hear  me  out.  Now,  once  for  all.  It  seems  to 
me  that  you  are  laboring  under  a  delusion  that  I  would 
gladly  dispel.  Is  it  indeed  the  matter  of  life  and  death 
with  me,  the  speaking  of  '  this  word,'  that  you,"  with  a 
chilling  emphasis,  "  seem  to  think?  Am  I  so  madly  de- 
sirous to  see  you  free  that  I —  Oh!"  breaking  off  sud- 
denly, as  if  suffocating,  and  making  a  passionate  movement 
with  her  lovely  naked  arm,  as  if  flinging  from  her  some 
hateful  thing.     "  It  is  insufferable!" 

"  Don't  go  too  far!'*  says  Denis,  in  a  curiously  com- 
pressed tone. 

"  I  could  not!"  vehemently.  "  To  say  enough,  that  is 
the  difficulty.  But  who  could  find  words  sufficient  for 
such  a  cause.  Has  my  manner,  the  manner  of  which  you 
so  sadly  complain,  not  taught  you  that — that — " 

"  What?"  catching  her  wrist. 

"  That  I  hate  and  detest  you!"  cries  she  with  a  sudden 
burst  of  indignation,  wrenching  herself  free.  Her  eyes  are 
aflame,  her  lips  quivering.  Never,  even  in  her  loveliest 
moments,  has  she  looked  so  beautiful. 

"So!"  says  he,  bitterly.  Her  beauty  is  lost  to  him 
just  then,  though  in  a  sense  he  sees  it,  and  afterward  re- 
members and  recalls  every  charm;  but  now  such  wild  rage 
governs  his  heart  that  only  the  keen  hatred  that  is  always 
so  near  allied  to  a  keen  love  surges  within  his  breast. 

"  Has  it  never  occurred  to  you,"  says  he,  his  own  eyes 
flashing,  "  that  you  might  teach  me  to  return  that  feel- 
ing?" 

' '  Eeturn  it  as  heartily  as  you  will.  The  more  heartily 
the  better  I  shall  be  pleased." 


140  THE    DUCHESS. 

"  It  has  come  to  this,  then.  It  is  to  be  open  war  be» 
tween  us. " 

"  I  don't  know  about  the  coming,  the  newness  of  it.  I 
have  thought  of  you  for  a  long  time  as  I  think  now.'' 

"  In  the  old  days  at  Bally hincli?"  His  tone  has  again 
softened;  there  is  even  eager  ajipeal  now  in  the  eyes  he 
turns  on  her.  Both  the  appeal  and  the  altered  tone  only 
serve  to  madden  her.  Alas,  alas,  for  those  old  dead 
days! 

"  At  Ballyhinch,"  sa^'s  she,  growing  deadly  white,  but 
still  regarding  him  with  an  unwavering  gaze,  ''you  be- 
lieved I  was  in  love  with  you!  Is  not  that  so?  You 
thought" — with  a  little,  low  laugh — "that  you  were  a 
hero,  a  being  from  another — a  fashionable,  world — in  the 
eyes  of  the  little,  simple  country  girl,  with  whom  it  pleased 
you  to  while  away  the  tedious  hours.  Come  " — standing 
back  from  him  with  her  arms  still  clasped  behind  her  and 
a  mocking  smile  upon  her  lips  that  hides  from  him  the 
misery  of  her  eyes — "  confess  you  did  not  know  me  then — 
that  I  was  a  silly  country  baby,  if  you  will — but  that,  at 
all  events,  I  was  not  foolish  enough  to  bow  down  and  wor- 
ship you. " 

Oh,  the  self -contempt  that  awakes  witiiiu  her  as  she 
says  this!  The  burning  pain  at  her*iieart!  Had  she  not 
bowed  down  and  worshiped — and  given,  unasked,  all  the 
first  sweet  love  of  her  life  into  his  keeping?  Her  breath  is  . 
coming  quickly  through  her  red,  ripe  lips;  her  eyes  are 
blazing  with  an  unnatural  brilliance;  the  moonbeams  fall- 
ing on  her  light  up  each  separate  charm,  clinging  softly  to 
her  as  though  loath  to  let  her  lips  from  their  embrace — as 


THE    DUCHESS.  141 

though  well  aware  that  never  yet  did  goodlier  sight  stand 
here  revealed  in  this  old,  time-honored  garden. 

The  insolence,  the  beauty  of  her,  rouses  in  Delaney  an 
anger  uncontrollable,  but  with  a  passion  more  uncontrolla- 
ble still.  As  she  stands  thus  before  him,  defiant,  lovely, 
he  makes  a  sudden  step  forward  and  catches  her  in  his 
arms.  There  is  a  second^s  almost  deadly  pause — heart 
beating  against  heart — a  last  touch  of  remorse — and  then 
he  kisses  her  as  he  has  never  yet  kissed  any  woman,  as  he 
will  never  kiss  another. 

He  loosens  his  arms — too  late!  A  sense  of  his  own  act, 
a  knowledge  that  he  has  sinned  beyond  redemption,  so 
overpowers  him  that  he  can  find  no  words  in  which  to  ex- 
cuse himself.  As  he  stands  silent,  stricken  with  regret,  a 
low,  sobbing  breath  falls  upon  his  ear. 

"  Oh!  that  I  could  kill  you!"  exclaims  the  Duchess,  in 
a  tone  so  intense  as  to  be  almost  inaudible. 

They  are  thus  standing,  facing  each  other — she  trem- 
bling, unnerved;  he  silent,  remorseful — when  a  light  foot- 
step sounds  upon  her  right.  Involuntarily — both  raise 
their  heads  and  move  a  little  further  apart  as  Miss  Cazalet 
comes,  with  her  usual  slow,  undulating  step,  from  the 
shadows  that  lie  thickly  on  the  eastern  walk. 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

"  Hopes  and  fears — belief  and  disbelieving." 

"Is  it  a  rehearsal?'^   asks  she,  sweetly,  smiling  upon 
Denis.     "If  so,  it  hardly  needs  a  repetition,  I  think.     It 


142  THE    DUCHESS. 

will  bring  down  any  house.  You  are  both,  so  far  as  I  am 
a  judge,  perfect  in  your  parts." 

The  Duchess,  pale  as  death,  stands  motionless.  How 
much  does  she  know?    ATliat  has  she  seen? 

"  Don't  be  frightened.  I  shall  not  betray  you,''  says 
Miss  Cazalet,  staring  straight  at  her  with  an  abominable 
little  laugh.  "It  is  a  secret  as  yet,  I  suppose,  this  very 
lively  entertainment  of  yours,  and  I  shall  take  care  not  to 
mention  it  unless —  You  have  kept  it  quite  to  yourselves 
so  far,  have  you  not?    How  clever  of  you." 

*'  Katherine!"  begins  Delaney. 

"  No,  not  a  word.  What  should  there  be  to  explain  to 
me?  Secrecy  is  the  principal  thing  in  a  matter  of  this 
kind,  is  not  it?  It  is  always  more  amusing  so,  eh?  At 
least,  so  I  have  been  told.  It  adds  a  piquancy  to  the 
affair."  It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  smiling  insolence 
of  her  whole  manner. 

"You  had  better  hear  me,"  says  Delaney,  coming  a 
step  or  two  forward,  a  look  of  eager  excitement  on  his  face 
— nay,  more — an  intense  hope!     "  If  you  think — " 

"  I  don't,  I  am  sure,"  interrupts  she  with  a  clever 
haste.  "  But  if  you  wish  to  insinuate  that  the  extremely 
animated  scene  I  just  now  witnessed  was  not  acting,  I  fear 
it  must  mean  a  very  serious  quarrel  between  you  and  your 
cousin."  She  looks  quite  concerned.  "May  I  act  as 
mediator?"  She  fixes  her  gaze  on  Norah,  who  breathes  a 
little  more  freely.  Is  that  all,  then?  Had  she  only  heard 
those  last  angry  words  of  hers,  only  seen  the  indignation  of 
her  look  and  gesture?  Is  she  entirely  ignorant  of  what 
gave  rise  to  them? 


THE    DL'C'HKSS.  143 

"  I  think  not.  As  I  begin  so  must  I  tinish  my  feuds  for 
myself/' she  says,  sententiously.  Then,  "Have  you  no 
one  with  you?''  peering  into  the  darkness  behind,  where 
Miss  Cazalet  is  standing  just  on  the  moonbeam's  edge. 

"  No,"  a  little  taken  off  her  guard  by  this  prompt  ques- 
tion. 

"Ah!  Then  you  can  take  Denis  off  my  hands,"  says 
the  Duchess,  with  a  swift  movement  that  at  once  separates 
her  from  the  other  two.  She  steps  lightly  past  them,  and 
a  second  later  is  swallowed  up  by  the  shadows.  AVith  her 
goes  Miss  Oazalet's  assumed  indifference  and  smiling  un- 
concern. 

"  You  and  your  cousin  are  better  friends  than  I  have 
been  led  to  believe,"  she  says,  turning  a  searching,  a 
rather  contemptuous  glance  on  Denis. 

"  My  cousin  hates  me,"  replies  he,  gloomily. 

"  You  say  that!    Well,  I  should  not  have  thought  it. " 

"  You  of  all  others  should!"  retorts  he,  hotly.  "  You 
saw  more  than  you  pretend,  Katherine;  you  saw  all. 
And—" 

"  All!     Oh,  no!"  says  she,  with  an  inexplicable  smile. 

"  You  saw  enough  at  least  to  prove  to  you  that  Norah 
was  in  nowise  to  blame  to-night,  that  I — I  only" — he 
stops  as  though  it  were  impossible  for  him  to  proceed,  and 
a  heavy  sigh  breaks  from  him.  "  I  behaved  abominably 
to  her,"  he  bursts  out  at  last. 

"  I  am  not  thinking  of  her — of  the  injury  done  to  her 
fine  feelings,"  coldly.     "  I  am  thinking  of  myself. " 

"  I  know  J  I  understand  that  you  have  much  to  com- 


144  THE    DUCHESS. 

2>]ain  of.  I  can  quite  see  that  after  this  you  will  wish  to 
l)ut  an  end  to — " 

"  I  shall  put  an  end  to  nothing,"  steadily.  "  Do  you 
think,"  with  a  glance  supposed  to  be  fond,  and  that  makes 
his  heart  die  within  him,  *'  that  I  could  not  forgive  you  so 
much,  and  that  I  have  not  formed  my  own  opinion  of  this 
unpleasant  matter?  I  believe  the  truth  to  be  that  you 
were  led  into  it  by  a  consummate  coquette,  a  heartless, 
unprincipled  flirt!**  The  words  seem  to  come  from  be- 
tween her  clinched  teeth.     Her  eyes  grow  vindictive. 

"  One  word,  Katheriue!"  says  Delaney,  sternly.  "  You 
shall  say  no  slanderous  thing  of  my  cousin.  Remember 
that.  It  is  impossible,  having  seen  Norah,  that  you  should 
think  so  of  her." 

"  T  have  my  own  views,  as  T  told  you  before,**  with  a 
curl  of  her  thin  lips,  "  and  I  leave  it  to  time  to  prove  me 
right.  Meanwhile,'*  coldly,  *' it  would  be  in  better  taste, 
I  think,  if  you  were  to  refrain  from  defending  her  in  my 
presence.  However,  I  have  no  intention  of  quarreling 
with  you  on  such  worthless  grounds.  Come.  Let  us  re- 
turn to  the  house.  ** 


*'  "Well,  I  don't  know  that  I  ever  enjoyed  myself  more,** 
says  Lady  Glandore,  in  her  languid  way,  alluding  to  the 
joy  of  the  past  night.  It  is  now  once  more  a  new  day,  and 
some  of  them  are  wandering  aimlessly  down  tlie  pathways 
that  lead  to  the  shrubbery,  discussing  the  good  and  evil  of 
ine  dead  dance. 

*'  I  am  sure  I  didn't/*  says  Mr.  Greene,  who  in  as  usu^ 


THE    DUCHESS.  145 

Norah's  shadow.  "  But  Miss  Delaney  is  ominously  silent. 
What  cloud  lies  on  your  brain.  Miss  Delaney?" 

"  Norah?  Nonsense!'*  says  Lady  Glandore,  coming 
good-naturedly  to  the  girFs  rescue.  *'  Don't  believe  her 
if  she  pretends  to  melancholy.  To  my  certain  knowledge 
she  danced  holes  in  her  stockings.  What  could  any  well 
regulated  girl  desire  more.'* 

**  Unless  it  might  be  stockings  impervious  to  holes,  I 
don't  know/'  responds  Mr.  Greene,  meekl}'. 

"Oh!  one  might  desire  more  than  that,"  says  Miss 
Cazalet,  with  a  little  subdued  smile. 

"  As  for  Nancy  Blake — "  Lady  Glandore  is  beginning, 
when  suddenly  the  two  in  advance  cry  '  Hush '  simul- 
taneously and  come  to  a  dead  stop;  their  eyes  are  riveted 
upon  a  little  blank  space  in  the  laurel  hedge  before  them, 
through  which  a  back  can  be  distinctly  seen.  Surely  it  is 
the  back  of  Nancy  Blake  herself,  and  surely,  too,  that 
other  back  so  close  to  her  belongs  to  Lord  Kilgarriff.  All 
this  might  be  as  nothing;  but  what  is  that  obscures  the 
dainty  roundness  of  Miss  Blake's  waist? 

AYith  one  consent  the  advancing  army  right  about  face 
and  turn  and  flee — Lady  Glandore,  who  is  specially  de- 
lighted by  this  little  glimpse  into  her  friend's  preoccupa- 
tions, laughing  immoderately  all  the  way.  The  Duchess, 
perhaps,  is  in  a  degree  surprised.  It  is  always  a  surprise 
to  a  woman  to  find  that  a  man  can  see  any  charms  in 
another,  having  once  seen  charms  in  her. 

''Isn't  Nancy  delicious?"  says  Lady  Glandore.  **  So 
exquisitely  simple,  I  call  it." 

^'  So  do  I,"  says  Mr.  Greene,  innocently  misunderstand- 


14G  THE    JJLtilKbo. 

ing.  **  I've  always  Baid  lie  was  the  dearest  and  simplest 
fellow  I  know/* 

"I  didn't  mean  that/'  says  Lady  Glandore,  a  little 
warmly,  who  can  make  fun  of  a  friend  herself,  but  won't 
hear  others  do  it;  "  what  I  said  was — " 

"  That  Nancy  was  '  delicious,'  "  puts  in  Sir  Philip. 
"  And  who  shall  gainsay  you?  She  is  one  of  the  few 
charming  people  still  left  upon  the  earth. " 

'*  Is  she  so  charming?"  questions  Miss  Cazalet,  with  a 
delicate  lifting  of  her  brows.  "  I  suppose  she  must  be, 
but  I  confess  it  is  always  a  matter  of  wonder  to  me  what  it 
is  you  all  see  about  her." 

"It  can't  be  a  wonder  this  time,  at  all  events,"  says 
Mr.  Greene,  mildly.     "  You  saw  it  yourself." 

"What?"  sharply. 

"  Why,  Kilgarriff's  arm.  That  was  about  her,  wasn't 
it?" 

Whilst  Miss  Cazalet  is  betraying  her  very  natural  con- 
tempt for  this  mean  joke,  Delaney,  going  up  to  Norah, 
touches  her  lightly  on  the  arm. 

"  Come  this  way;  I  want  to  speak  to  you.  I  must,"  he 
says,  pointing  to  a  side  walk  that  leads  to  the  right. 
Something  in  his  whole  air  induces  her  to  accede  to  his  re- 
quest, and  turning  aside  she  goes  with  him  down  the 
shaded  unfrequented  pathway  he  had  indicated  to  her.  A 
sudden  turn  in  it  effectually  conceals  them  from  the  others 
on  the  upper  walk,  who  by  this  time  have  swept  on  beyond 
hearing. 

"  Well?"  asks  she,  coldly,  stopping  short  and  looking 
at  him.     What  she  sees  sends  a  sharp  pang  to  her  heart. 


THE    DUCHESS.  147 

He  i;  pale,  haggard  and  wretched  looking.  Dark  shadows 
lying  under  his  eyes  tell  of  a  night  passed  without  sleep, 
and  his  face  is  drawn  and  dejected. 

*'  Norah,  forgive  me,"  he  says,  eagerly,  trying  to  take 
her  hand.  "  Is  my  sin  so  unpardonable  a  one  that  I  dare 
not  ask  for  mercy?  Think— have  pity  on  me.  To  you 
who  do  not  care  all  this  is  as  nothing,  but  to  me — to  me 
who  love  you  so  madly,  so  miserably,  your  anger  is  as 
death.     Say  you  forgive  me!'' 

"'  No,  it  is  impossible,*'  says  the  Duchess,  slowly.  The 
color  has  faded  from  her  cheek  and  she  has  turned  her 
eyes  upon  the  ground.  She  can  not  bear  to  look  at  him. 
And  yet  it  is  true;  forgiveness  she  can  not  grant  him. 

"  Do  not  say  that,"  entreats  he,  gently,  but  with  a  fierce 
undercurrent  of  agitation.  "  You  should  weigh  well  your 
words  before  saying  such  a  cruel  thing  as  that.  See,  I  am 
going  away  this  afternoon — in  an  hour  or  so — and  I  sha'n't 
be  back  until  to-morrow;  do  not  send  me  from  you  with 
this  horrible  weight  upon  my  heart.  Do  not,  I  beseech 
you.  I  have  been  so  many  hours — so  many  sleepless  hours 
—brooding  on  this  thing  that,"  with  a  heavy  sigh,  ''I 
would  entreat  you  to  give  me  a  kindly  word,  to  lighten  my 
remorse  somewhat." 

'*  A  word— what  can  I  say?" 

"  That  you  forgive  me.  It  is  a  great  deal  to  ask,  I 
know,  but — " 

"  I  will  not;  I  can  not,''  exclaims  she,  hurriedly,  her 
eyes  always  on  the  ground. 

"  Well,  so  be  it,"  says  he,  wearily.  He  moves  away 
from  her,  and  then  as  suddenly  comes  back  again,  and, 


148  THE    DLCIIESS. 

raising  her  face  with  one  hand,  compels  her  to  return  his 
regard. 

"  What  a  face!"  he  says.  "  All  love  and  tenderness 
and  sweetness,  yet  how  hartl,  how  unforgiving  you  can  bel 
Are  you  flesh  and  blood,  that  you  thus  coldly  renounce 
nie?  A  moment  since  I  said  all  this  was  nothing  to  you, 
because  you  did  not  care;  but, "  passionately,  "I  spoke 
against  my  better  judgment  then — I  believe  against  every- 
thing— that  you  do  care.  You  were  my  friend  once;  you 
can  not  be  so  altogether  changed/' 

"And  yet  I  am.  I,'*  with  a  little  quick  frown,  as 
though  something  has  hurt  her,  "  I  hardly  know  myself 
since  I  came  here.  Call  me  capricious,  what  you  will,  but 
only  believe,''  eagerly,  "  that  the  girl  you  knew  at  Bally- 
hinch  is  not  the  girl  you  know  now.  All  my  tastes  are 
altered.  What  I  liked  then  I  think  worthless  now;  what 
then  contented  me  seems  now  of  the  poorest  value.  Per- 
haps this  may  exiDlain  the  change  in  me  of  which  you  com- 
plain; it  must,  it  should/'  with  a  vehement  desire  to  con- 
vince, "  because  there  is  no  other  reason,  not  one,  for  the 
— the  dislike  that  now  I  feel  for  you." 

She  has  said  this  rapidly,  with  a  nervous  haste;  and  as 
she  finishes  looks  almost  on  the  point  of  fainting.  Delaney, 
who  has  been  watching  her,  whilst  listening  with  a  curious 
light  in  his  eyes,  now  draws  back  a  step  or  two  as  if 
to  go. 

"  I  must  accept  your  explanation,  of  course.  There  is 
nothing  else  left  to  me.  Well,  good-bye,"  says  he,  raising 
his  hat. 

"  You  are  not  going  to  this  theatrical  entertainment  to- 


THE    DUCHESS.  149 

night,  then,  at  the  Barracks?"  says  she,  with  an  evident 
effort  at  ordinary  conversation. 

'*  No.  I  am  going  to  nothing  pleasant — not  even  to  the 
devil,"  says  he  with  a  short  laugh.  "  Some  fellows  in  my 
case  might  find  it  poor  consolation  in  taking  that  road, 
but  to  me  even  such  paltry  comfort  is  denied.  Will  you 
come  back  to  the  house  or  will  you  joia  the  others?" 

"  Neither.  I  should  like  to  remain  here  alone,^^  replies 
she,  turning  rather  impatiently  away  from  him. 

To  be  alone,  however,  is  denied  her.  The  last  sound  of 
Delaney's  departing  footsteps  is  still  upon  the  air,  when 
Norah,  glancing  apprehensively  to  her  right,  sees  Miss 
Cazalet  advancing  toward  her  from  the  upper  walk. 

"How  fortunate!"  says  Katherine,  seeing  from  a  dis- 
tance a  desire  on  Norah's  part  to  escape,  and  thus  cutting 
it  short.  "  I  had  no  idea  you  were  here,  and  I  wanted  so 
much  to  see  you.  There  is  something,"  with  a  peculiarly 
unpleasant  smile,  "  I  wish  to  say  to  you." 

"  Yes?"  says  the  Duchess,  faintly,  instinct  warning  her 
that  her  hour  is  come. 

"  When  next,"  begins  Miss  Gazalet,  in  her  clear,  cutting 
tones,  standing  opposite  to  the  girl  and  fixing  her  with  her 
light,  pitiless  eyes,  "  when  next  you  want  to  kiss  a  young 
man  do  not  choose  the  shrubberies  as  the  scene  of  action, 
and— do  not  choose  Denis!'* 

"  You  can  not— you  can  not  know  what  you  are  say- 
ing," gasps  the  Duchess,  turning  ghastly  pale.  The  poor 
child  is  trembling  in  every  limb— too  horrified,  too  fright- 
ened, to  make  any  further  protest. 


150  THF    Drf'HESS. 

**  I  do,  perfectly.  I  always  know  what  I  am  saying," 
Ba3's  Miss  Cazalet,  calmly.  "I  saw  you  last  night  with 
Denis;  I  saw  him — "  she  panses  and  casts  a  glance  of 
vivid  hatred  upon  the  shrinking  girl  before  her.  "  Would 
you  have  me  repeat  it?"  she  says,  contemptuously. 

"  Do  not  speak  to  me  like  that,"  says  the  Duchess,  in  a 
tone  so  low  as  to  be  almost  inaudible.  "  If — if  indeed  you 
were  there  last  night  you  must  have  seen  that  I  did  not — 
that,"  stammering  painfully,  "  I  was  not  in  fault — that  I 
did  not  do  this  thing  of  which  you  so  cruelly  accuse  me. 
"I,"  with  a  sudden  unlifting  of  her  tone,  "  I  could  not. 
He — the  affianced  husband  of  another  woman — oh,  no, 
no,"  covering  her  eyes  with  her  hands,  "  it  is  not  like  me. 
It  would  not  be  me  if  I  could  do  such  a  thing.  You  must 
know  that." 

Her  breath  is  coming  heavily  from  between  her  parted 
lips.  All  her  natural  honest  courage  has  forsaken  her. 
She  has  fixed  her  eyes,  which  have  grown  large  and  wild, 
upon  Katherine,  and  even  as  the  latter  watches  her  two 
heart-broken  tears  roll  down  her  cheeks. 

"  You  must  know  it,"  she  says  again,  absolute  entreaty 
in  her  tone. 

"  I  know  only  what  I  see  and  hear,"  returns  Miss  Caza- 
let, unmoved.  "  And — I  saw  you  in  his  embrace.  Your 
pretended  anger  afterward  did  not  deceive  me  in  the  least. 
It  was  a  mere  part  of  a  well  arranged  whole.  However," 
carelessly,  "  there  is  really  no  reason  why  we  should  dwell 
on  such  a  rather  vulgar  episode.  I  only  spoke  of  it  at  all 
to  warn  you  to — "  repeating  her  words  with  cold  meaning 
emphasis — "  warn  you  to  avoid  Denis  in  the  future," 


THE    DUCHESS.  151 

"  To  warn  me!"  says  the  Duchess,  recovering  her  cour- 
age at  this  insult,  and  flushing  haughtily. 

"Quite  so/' calmly.  "If  you  interfere  with  me  and 
Denis  again,  I  tell  you  openly  that  I  shall  inform  every 
one  here  of  what  I  saw  last  night." 

"  No  one  here  would  believe  your  version  of  it — no 
one!''  passionately. 

"  Still,"  with  an  unpleasant  smile,  "  such  stories  dam- 
age! And  besides,  I  hardly  think  you  would  care  for  me 
to  make  the  experiment." 

The  Duchess  makes  a  slight  gesture  with  her  little  trem- 
bling hand.  She  can  not  speak.  A  sensation  of  positive 
sickness  is  overpowering  her.  Oh !  to  get  away  from  this 
horrible  woman;  anywhere,  only  away. 

"You  undei'stand,"  says  Miss  Cazalet,  remorselessly, 
enjoying  with  an  only  half-concealed  amusement  the  girl's 
agony  of  shame. 

"  There  is  no  reason  why  you  should  speak  to  me  like 
this,"  says  the  Duchess,  making  a  supreme  effort  to  be 
calm.  "  Denis  is  nothing  to  me — nothing — and  I  am  less 
to  him.     You  mistake  altogether.  " 

"  And  last  night — did  I  mistake  then,  too?*' 

"  Denis  was  in  fault  then,  I  admit,'*  pressing  one  hand 
tightly  over  the  other  as  a  help  to  sustain  the  difficult 
calm.     "  I  told  him  so — just  now." 

"  I  know,"  says  Miss  Cazalet,  with  a  peculiar  glance. 

"  But  you  should  remember,"  with  a  foolish,  generous 
desire  to  exonerate  him  in  part,  "  that  it  was  only  a  mo- 
ment's folly — a  passing  temptation.  " 

"  Were  you  the  temptation?"  with  a  short  laugh.    Then 


152  THE    DUCHESS. 

all  at  once  n  touch  of  passion  breaks  up  her  icy  composure. 
"  See!  Once  for  all,"  she  says,  coming  a  step  nearer, 
*'  don't  imagine  that  you  can  ever  impose  upon  me.  Act 
your  part  to  the  others,  blind  them  if  you  will,  but  don't 
hope  to  take  me  in.  From  the  very  first  moment  my 
eyes  lit  on  you  I  have  seen  through  you.  Your  pretended 
avoidance  of  .Denis,  your  carefully  assumed  coldness  to- 
ward him,  your  clever  little  role  of  petulant  dislike;  all 
has  been  clear  to  me,  and  beneath  it— what?  Do  you 
think,"  insolently,  "  I  could  not  read  your  eyes?  And 
what  eyes  you  have!''  with  a  gust  of  bitter  hatred;  "  they 
tell  for  you  what  you  dare  not  put  into  words;  they  woo 
silently  the  man  you  know  to  be  in  honor  bound  to  an- 
other; they  say  such  shameless  things  as  you  are  afraid  to 
utter.  Do  you  think,"  vehemently,  "  that,  watching  you 
daily,  hourly,  as  I  have  ddne,  I  have  not  read  your  secret 
ill  them?  Yes,  cower  away  from  me  as  you  will,  you  shall 
hear  what  I  have  learned — that  you — love  him."  Norah 
puts  out  her  hand  as  if  to  ward  off  a  blow.  "Hah!  Does 
that  make  you  shrink?  does  that  hurt  you?  I,"  vindict- 
ively, "  am  glad  of  it.     Now  go!    And — remember!" 

The  insolence  of  thie  dismissal  rouses  in  the  Duchess  a 
feeling  of  intolerable  indignation. 

''  I  shall  remember  you — forever,"  she  says,  breathless- 
ly— childishly,  perhaps,  yet  with  a  withering  contempt 
that  cuts  deep  into  the  haughty  woman  before  her,  *'  as 
the  most  ill-bred  person  I  have  ever  met." 

*****  v  * 

Heart-sick  and  wearied  by  this  addition  to  the  secret 
grie'  she  always  carries,  and  crushed  by  a  sense  of  bitter 


THE    DUCHESS.  153 

humiliation,  it  is  because  of  no  feigned  headache  that  the 
Duchess  declares  her  inability  to  accompany  the  others  to 
the  military  theatricals  at  Clonbree,  that  take  place  this 
evening. 

"  What  has  Katherine  been  doing  to  you?''  asks  shrewd 
Miss  Blake,  looking  down  upon  a  very  pale  little  Norah, 
who  is  sitting  languidly  in  a  huge  arm-chair  in  the  library, 
where  they  have  all  assembled,  whilst  waiting  for  the  car- 
riages. She  is  dressed  in  a  pretty  white  gown  made  high 
to  the  neck,  but  with  no  sleeves,  and  her  face  is  as  white 
as  her  frock. 

"Katherine?  Why  should  you  think  that?"  growing 
crimson.     "  I  am  not  well;  my  head  aches,  but—'' 

"  Never  mind.  I'll  let  you  off  the  rest.  Fibbing  isn't 
much  in  your  line,"  says  Miss  Blake,  with  a  sapient  nod. 
"  I  can  wait  and  get  it  all  out  of  you  to-morrow." 

She  moves  away  with  a  little  provoking  glance  over  her 
shoulder  at  Norah,  as  she  sees  Mme.  Delaney  approach- 
ing with  a  rather  anxious  expression  on  her  face. 

"  I  hope  you  won't  feel  lonely,  darling,"  she  says,  ten- 
derly, bending  over  Norah. 

"  Oh,  no.  I  am  too  tired,"  with  a  smile,  "  to  feel  any- 
thing." 

"  The  carriage  is  waiting,  aunt,"  says  Miss  Cazalet,  in 
measured  tones,  sweeping  up  to  them  in  an  exquisite  gown 
of  black  and  gold. 

"Very  well,  my  dear,"  placidly.  "Now,  Norah," 
turning  again  with  a  fond  glance  to  her  other  niece,  "  you 
will  promise  me,  won't  you,  dearest,  to  go  to  bed  at  once. " 


154  THE    DUCHESS. 

"An  easy  promise  to  give.  I  wish  I  was  in  it  this  mo« 
ment. " 

Madame  laughs. 

"  To  confess  a  terrible  truth  to  you/'  she  says,  "  I  wish 
with  all  my  heart  that  I  too  was  in  mine.'' 

She  kisses  the  girl  affectionately,  and  soon  afterward 
they  have  all  gone  out  of  the  room;  there  is  the  last  sound 
of  their  footsteps  in  the  hall;  a  faint  far-off  laugh— that 
was  Nancy — and  now  even  the  roll  of  the  carriages  up  the 
avenue  has  ceased  upon  the  air. 

:  What  a  curious  sense  of  loneliness  has  fallen  upon  the 
house,  almost  it  seems  as  though  the  very  servants  had  left 
it.  There  is  certainly  nothing  to  sit  up  for,  and  yet  in 
spite  of  that  promise  given  so  readily  to  Madame,  Norah  can 
not  bring  herself  to  go  to  bed.  The  spirit  of  restlessness 
has  taken  possession  of  her,  and  rising  from  her  chair  she 
wanders  in  an  aimless  fashion  about  the  library,  touching 
a  book  here,  trifling  with  a  set  of  rare  prints  there,  now 
stirring  the  already  glowing  fire,  now  staring  idly  at  the 
large  well-filled  book-cases,  but  always  and  in  every  case 
without  interest. 

One  of  the  servants  brings  her  presently  a  cup  of  tea, 
which  she  accepts  gladly,  yet  after  all  forgets  to  drink,  and 
after  that  no  one  comes  to  disturb  her  solitude,  which  is 
perhaps  the  worst  thing  that  could  have  happened  to  her. 
Left  thus,  entirely  alone  with  her  thoughts,  they  turn  to, 
and  dwell  with  a  most  unhappy  perastency  upon,  the  events 
of  to-day  and  the  past  night,  painting  them  in  their 
blackest  colors,  until  finally,  worn  out  with  grief  and  misery, 
she  sinks  upon  a  low  lounge  and  bursts  into  bitter  weeping. 


THE    DUCHESS.  1^^ 

And  then,  wearied  by  her  emotion,  her  head  droops 
heavily  upon  the  soft  cushion  of  the  lounge,  and  rests  there 
gratefully,  with  a  vague  but  happy  sense  of  relief;  and 
after  awhile  that  sense  of  rehef  changes  to  kindly  sleep, 
which,  growing  on  her,  she  draws  up,  half  unconsciously, 
her  feet  to  this  welcome  restful  couch,  and  with  a  few 
faint,  lingering  sobs  falls  into  a  profound  slumber. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

"  Now  all  is  hush'd  as  Nature  were  retired, 
And  the  perpetual  motion  standing  still." 

The  night  is  dark  and  moist  and  windy.  Low,  thun- 
derous sounds  come  up  from  the  shores  below,  and  are 
swept  inland  by  the  heavy  force  of  the  wind. 

Now  and  again  the  moon  bursts  forth  from  behind  the 
leaden  clouds  that  almost  overweight  the  sky,  giving  a 
brilliant  if  evanescent  glory  to  the  shivering  earth  beneath. 
For  the  most  part,  however,  it  lies  hidden  behind  this 
pall  of  dense  watery  cloud  that  hes  across  the  heavens,  and 
only  a  general  darkness  draws  everything  into  one  nni- 

versal  net.  ,  •  i   • 

Sometimes  a  star  or  two  peeps  forth  through  a  chmk  m 
the  black  wall,  breaking  the  inky  dullness;  but  a  more 
sure  and  certain  irradiation  comes  from  the  light-house, 
the  lamp  of  which  shmes  out  every  other  moment  with  a 
fervid  power-to  disappear,  certainly,  but  then  as  cer- 
tainly to  appear  again. 

To  the  solitary  horseman  riding  along  the  road  that 


156  THE  nrciiEss. 

stretches  like  a  gray  ribbon  on  the  right  the  coming  of  this 
light-house  star  brings  a  sense  of  comfort — foretelhng  as  it 
does  the  nearness  of  his  home.  The  road  is  a  narrow  one, 
hedged  in  on  either  side  by  thick  warm  masses  of  yellow 
furze,  still  aglow  with  its  golden  bloom,  though  the  season 
is  so  far  advanced.  Delaney,  breathing  the  fragrant  per- 
fume of  its  flower,  thinks  with  a  feeling  of  rather  fatigued 
satisfaction  that  he  is  now  close  upon  his  journey's  end. 

It  is  long  past  midnight,  and  cold,  with  a  deadly  chill, 
has  grown  the  air.  Now  once  again  the  moon  bursts  its 
bonds  and  lights  up  the  surging,  glittering  waves  away 
over  there,  that  dance  and  heave  and  roar  in  the  moon- 
light, whilst  on  this  side  it  shows  up  the  gray  misty  vapors 
that  rise  from  the  bog. 

Gray  and  cold  and  colorless  as  bis  own  life  is  bound  to 
be,  so  Delaney  tells  himself,  gazing  with  heavy  eyes  upon 
the  impure  vapor;  gray  as  the  melancholy  thoughts  that 
have  been  his  during  his  twenty-mile  ride;  thoughts  not 
altogether  devoid  of  self-contempt,  for  had  he  not  declared 
his  intention  of  not  returning  to  Ventry  until  the  morrow 
— that  is  already  to-day. 

He  had  fully  intended  not  to  return  when  setting  forth 
upon  his  journey,  but  time  had  destroyed  that  resolution. 
To  stay  away  from  her  he  found  would  be  impossible  to 
him.  He  could  not.  He  must  return — to  see  her,  to 
plead  with  her  afresh  for  the  pardon  she  had  so  cruelly 
denied.  He  thought,  he  honestly  believed,  that  if  she  had 
forgiven  him  he  could  have  stayed  away,  but  she  had  re- 
fused him  absolution,  and  always  that  pale,  small,  sorrow- 
ful^ unforgiving  face  was  before  him. 


THE    DUCHESS.  157 

He  could  not  rest.  It  was  madness,  no  doubt,  but  she 
drew  him  to  her  with  a  force  he  could  not  resist. 

There  was  no  train  to  be  had  at  that  late  hour  when  he 
had  felt  that  overpowering  desire  to  see  her  again  grow 
upon  him,  with  a  strength  not  to  be  conquered;  so  he  had 
borrowed  a  horse  from  his  host,  urging  instant  business  as 
an  excuse,  and  had  set  out  upon  his  long  ride  to  Ventry 
with  a  feverish  impatience  that  rendered  liim  impervious 
to  cold  or  rain  or  fatigue. 

Now,  at  last,  as  the  miles  grow  fewer,  he  confesses  to 
nimself  that  he  is  in  a  degree  tired;  two  nights  without 
sleep  will  tell  on  most  men,  be  they  never  so  happy,  but 
with  a  gnawing  pain  forever  at  the  heart  the  loss  of  those 
precious  hours  of  forgetf ulness  is  sometimes  worse  than 
death  itself. 

Everything  seems  to  recur  to  him  with  a  startling  vivid- 
ness as  he  rides  on  his  silent  way,  everything  coimected 
with  his  ill-advised  engagement  to  Katherine  Cazalet.  His 
first  meeting  with  her  years  ago,  when  she  had  come,  a 
tall,  slender,  wonderfully  self-possessed  orphan,  to  share 
her  aunt's  home  till  she  should  be  of  age.  He  remembers 
now,  with  a  rather  idle  wonder,  how  lovely  he  then  had 
thought  her;  he,  a  very  young  man  at  that  time,  a  mere 
stripling,  only  one  or  two  years  her  senior.  Then  there 
was  the  cousinly  relation  between  them,  that  ever  seemed 
to  draw  them  closer  together,  and  the  natural  pleasure  he 
had  felt  when  it  dawned  upon  him  that  she  was  warm  and 
tender  in  her  manner  to  him  alone  whilst  cold  to  all  the 
rest  of  the  world.  And  after  that  there  was  the  insensible 
drifting  into  that  closer  tie — the  knowledge,  vaguely  but 


158  THE    DUCHESS. 

certainly  conveyed  to  him  (how,  or  by  whom  he  hardly 
knew  then),  that  a  marriage  between  the  cousins  was  a 
matter  widely  discussed  and  looked  forward  to  by  the 
world  at  large.  To  draw  back  now  would  be  to  bring 
down  on  Katherine  the  sneers  of  their  many  friends,  to 
subject  her  to  much  unpleasantness,  nay,  to  leave  himself 
open  to  a  charge  that  touched  his  honor. 

There  was  but  one  thiug  to  be  done,  and  he  had  done  it 
with  a  sufficiently  good  grace.  It  seemed  to  be  the  most 
natural  thing  in  the  world,  Katherine  so  evidently  had  ex- 
pected it — and  so  had  his  mother.  There  was  no  chance 
for  withdrawal,  and  besides  it  had  really  seemed  a  very 
usual  finish  to  a  long  friendship;  so  the  engagement  was 
speedily  made  public,  with  a  rapidity  indeed  that  had 
astonished  him  at  the  time,  and  things  had  arranged 
themselves,  and  everything  had  settled  down  into  the  usual 
and  good  commonplaceness  of  an  orthodox  betrothal. 
And  then — came  Norah! 

How  loud  the  wind  roars;  what  a  sullen  cry  uprises  from 
the  sea!  Delaney,  who  is  more  worn  out  in  body,  and 
specially  in  soul,  than  he  at  all  believes,  reels  a  little  in  his 
saddle,  and  then  pulls  himself  together  again,  with  a 
fierce,  vain  wish  that  it  might  all  end  now,  here,  this  mo- 
ment! Life!  what  a  worry,  a  turmoil  it  is!  So  much 
labor  of  spirit,  so  little  rest;  little!  none,  it  seems  to 
him. 

What  a  flash  was  that,  so  blue,  so  vivid;  yet  no  thunder! 
There  is  strong  promise  of  rain  for  the  morrow,  to  come 
out  of  those  lowering  clouds.  Delaney  hardly  heeds  the 
tempestuous  signs  of  coming  storm,  riding  ever  onward  in 


THE    DUCHESS.  159 

a  half-dazed  fashion,  and  conscious  only  of  a  passionate 
longing  to  see  Norah  once  again. 

The  moon  again!  How  clear,  how  wildly  brilliant  it 
makes  all  things  seem!  To  his  disordered  fancy  it  lights 
the  dark  and  gloomy  earth  with  a  radiance  almost  super- 
natural; and  somehow  too  at  this  time  he  can  not  help 
thinking  that  something  is  running  by  his  side!  Brrt 
what? 

He  looks  down  involuntarily,  and — it  is  absurd  of  course 
— he  almost  laughs  aloud  at  this  fantastic  trick  his  eyes 
are  playing  him — but  is  it  a  little  child  that  is  clinging  to 
his  stirrup  leather?  A  little  dead  child!  with  white  up- 
lifted face,  and  wide  unseeing  eyesJ 

The  moon  goes  out  again,  leaving  the  world  once  more 
to  its  darkness,  but  still  Delaney  has  seen  that  little  form, 
and  feels  certain  it  is  there,  running  with  him,  always 
with  the  tiny  stiff  fingers  entangled  in  the  stirrup  leather, 
and  always  with  the  little  dead  face  uplifted. 

And  now  at  last  he  reaches  the  gates  of  Ventry,  and 
passes  through  them  down  the  long  avenue,  the  dead  child 
entering,  too,  and  clinging  to  him. 

All  at  once  a  horrible  certainty  smites  upon  him,  a  cer- 
tainty that  it,  the  sad  corpse  face,  is  like  Norah.  Norah! 
What  madness!  He  can  reason  still,  yet  a  strong  shudder 
shakes  him  as  the  thought  declares  itself.  It  follows  him 
all  the  way  round  to  the  stables,  where  he  dismounts,  and, 
with  that  wild  fancy  still  strong  upon  him,  actually  in  the 
darkness  brushes  down  that  side  of  the  saddle  where  the 
small  stiff  hand  had  seemed  to  be — to  find,  of  course, 
nothing. 


160  THE    DLCUESS. 

He  breathes  rather  more  freely  after  that,  and  presses 
kis  hand  to  his  foi-ehead,  which  is  throbbing  to  an  agoniz- 
ing degree.  The  whole  thing  was  ridiculous,  he  tells  him- 
self as  he  tiiugs  the  rclnh  io  a  sleepy  groom^  and  yet  it  was 
a  powerful  bit  of  imagination,  like  a  presentiment — a  pre- 
sentiment of  death.  But  death  to  whom?  A  hideous  fear 
thrills  him.  Yes,  the  face — he  is  sure  now — resembled 
Nor  all's. 

Entering  the  house  by  a  small  side  door,  heavily  clamped 
with  iron,  of  which  he  has  the  key,  he  goes  softly  up  the 
staircase  that  leads  to  the  hall  above.  If  anything  should 
have  happened  to  Norah !  Perhaps  even  now,  as  he  stands 
here  useless,  some  accident  may  be  taking  place.  Oh,  to 
be  certain  that  she  is  safe  at  Clonbree  with  the  others  I  He 
has  opened  the  door  of  the  library  and  is  standing  just  in- 
side it,  his  mind  full  of  one  thought  only,  one  longing,  to 
see  Norah  again,  alive,  safe. 

His  eyes  wander  carelessly  round  the  room,  and  then  all 
at  once  he  starts  convulsively.  What  is  that  lying  over 
there? 

Almost  it  seems  to  him  it  must  be  Norah's  lifeless  body 
— the  realization  of  his  fears  and  his  presentiments — so 
still,  so  death-like  is  her  repose.  But  a  second  later  what 
a  wild  rush  of  relief  is  that  that  overwhelms  him!  She  is 
only  sleeping,  and  with  that  blessed  certainty  all  his 
fatigue  vanishes,  with  that  curious  dullness  of  the  brain 
that  ha.l  been  troubling  him,  and  his  senses  grow  bright 
again  and  a  great  wave  of  joy  breaks  over  him. 

Bending  over  her,  he  watches  the  soft  breath  coming 
:';oni  between  her  parted  lips.     Unevenly  it  comes,  with 


THE   DUCRE88.  191 

8Terj  now  and  then  a  little  eobbing  sound  that  tells  of 
tears  but  lately  shed,  the  traces  of  which  are  even  now 
lying  sadly  upon  the  long  silken  lashes  that  sweep  her 
cheek. 

How  fragile,  how  white  she  looks!  Almost  as  one  might 
sickening  for  death.  Her  right  hand  drooping  a  little 
with  the  soft  pink  palm  uppermost,  and  half  unclosed  in 
the  languor  of  slumber,  touches  him  with  a  sense  of  help- 
lessness. Stooping,  he  presses  his  lips  to  it,  very  softly, 
lest  he  shall  awaken  her.  A  great  longing  to  kiss  her— 
her  cheek,  her  lips — possesses  him;  but  she  looks  so  tran- 
quil, BO  child-like,  so  unconscious,  that  such  a  deed  would 
be  impossible.  So  calm  she  lies,  she  might  almost  be 
dead,  and  therefore  sacred. 

Even  as  he  gazes  on  her,  roused  perhaps  by  that  gentle 
caress  upon  her  hand,  she  wakes;  the  white  lids  unclose, 
and  the  large  dark  eyes  look  up  at  him,  filled  with  a  soft 
wonderment. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

"  He  looked  at  her  as  a  lover  can; 
She  looked  at  him  as  one  who  awakes. 
The  past  was  sleep,  and  her  life  began." 

KoT  coldy,  not  scornfully,  now  do  Norah's  eyes  meet 
Delaney's,  but  with  a  tender  welcome  in  them.  Softly  sho 
turns  to  him,  with  a  little  loving  gesture,  and  with  her  lipc 
parted  by  a  happy  smile.  She  has  forgotten  everything  in 
this  supreme  moment,  save  those  old  sweet  days  when  first 
they  met,  and,  still  half  wrapped  in  the  tender  dream  that 


ISfl  THB    DUCHESS. 

had  carried  her  back  to  them,  she  whispers  fondly,  sleepily, 
as  a  child,  "  Denia." 

It  is  all  so  unexpected,  so  terrible,  because  of  the  hope- 
lessness that  must  follow  it,  that  Denis  stands  beside  her 
AB  one  stricken  dumb.  All  his  being  had  rushed  to  her  aa 
the  sound  of  that  loved  voice  calling  on  him  fell  upon  his 
ear;  and  it  is  by  a  superhuman  effort  alone  that  he  now 
stands  beside  her,  irresponsive,  motionless;  oh  I  the  sweet- 
ness of  those  parted  lips!  The  love-light  in  the  deep  gray 
eyes  I  Once  again  it  is  the  old  Norah  who  18  with  him — his 
darling — his  Duchess. 

And  then  there  is  an  end  of  it.  He  drops  her  hand  and 
turns  away,  and,  leaning  his  arms  upon  the  chimney-piece, 
lets  his  face  fall  forward  upon  them. 

*'  You  here!"  says  the  Duchess,  now  in  a  tone  thafc 
trembles.  She  has  sprung  to  her  feet,  and  is  wide  awake 
staring  at  his  back  with  astonishment  that  is  half  fear  shin- 
ing in  her  eyes.     *'  I  thought  you  were  in  Bandon?*' 

"  I  could  not  stay  there.     I  could  not  rest.** 

**  But  at  this  hour!'*  glancing  at  the  clock,  which  points 
to  two.     "  There  was  no  train?** 

"No.     I  rode.** 

"  Twenty  miles  in  the  middle  of  the  night.  What  mad- 
ness!** cries  she,  angrily.  "  Well,  you  must  be  tired,  in- 
deed, 80  I  will  wish  you  good-night.*' 

*'  Stay  one  moment,"  exclaims  he,  turning  his  haggard 
face  to  her.  "  You  know  what  brought  me  back.  You 
know  why  I  could  not  rest.  Your  ordinary  coldness  was 
bad  enough  to  bear,  but  to  feel  that  I  had  angered  you, 
wounded  you  past   foi-giveuess — that   you   had    actually 


IBIS    DUCHESS.  163 

denied  me  pardon — was  intolerable.  I  have  come  back  to 
ask  you  again,  entreat  you  to  put  your  hand  in  mine  and 
try  to  forget  what  I  have  done." 

"  Let  it  be  as  you  wish  thea,"  says  she,  with  a  sad  cold 
little  glance,  and  with  a  touch  of  weariness  in  her  tone. 
*'  I  shall  try  to  forget.  But  " — turning  suddenly  up  to  hia 
large  mournful  eyes,  "  if  only  I  might  go  homel*' 

A  pause. 

**  You  are  unhappy  here?"  asks  he,  at  last. 

"  I  am.  I  confess  it.  I,"  with  a  desperate  attempt  at 
an  e very-day  manner,  *'  miss  dad,  I  think.  I  want  him, 
oh,  so  badly!"  with  a  sharp  burst  of  grief. 

'*  Well,  you  shall  go,  Norah.  "We  have  no  right  to  keep 
you.  But  you  know  your  father  is  coming  here  the  day 
after  to-morrow,  and  after  a  little  while  you  can  returo 
with  him. " 

''That  will  all  take  too  long,"  cries  she,  feverishly. 
**  I  don't  want  him  to  come;  I  want  to  go  home  to  him — 
to  be  alone  with  him.  ** 

**  But,'*  questioningly,  "  must  it  be  at  once?" 

**  As  soon  as  possible.  At  once,  yes;  I  mean — to-mor- 
row," in  a  nervous,  uncertain  way,  trifling  absently  with 
an  ornament  on  the  table  near  her. 

'  "Not  to-morrow,  I'm  afraid,"  coldly.  "You  musfc 
try,"  with  a  rush  of  reproachful  anger,  "  to  curb  your 
mad  haste  to  be  rid  of  us  for  a  day  or  two.  I  can  tele- 
graph to  your  father  in  the  morning  to  expect  you,  but 
there  are  one  or  two  things  I  must  see  to  before  I  caa  take 
you  back  to  Ballyhinch." 


I9i  THF    DUCHESi. 

"You  take  me!  You  I  Oh,  no;  you  must  notj  yon 
shall  not/'  vehemently.     **  I  can  go  back  alone." 

"  Certainly  you  can  not,**  decidedly.  **  I  brought  you 
here,  and  I  am  responsible  for  your  safe  return.  I  shall 
most  undoubtedly  accompauy  you. 

"  I  tell  you  you  shall  not,"  in  sore  distress.  The  cruel 
meaning  in  Katherine  Cazalet's  face  recurs  to  her  like  a 
stab  at  this  moment.  **  Do  not  insist  on  this,  Denis.  Un- 
derstand me  when  I  say,"  going  nearer  to  him  and  speaking 
in  a  low  voice  but  with  intense  excitement,  "  that  rather 
than  have  you  as  my  escort  home  I  would  even  prefer  to 
remain  here." 

**  Even!  I  thank  you  for  both  my  mother  and  myself,'* 
says  he,  with  a  bitter  laugh.  "  "We  may,  indeed,  congratu- 
late ourselves  on  the  success  of  our  efforts  to  make  your 
stay  a  happy  one.** 

"  Do  not  say  such  things  to  me,**  says  she,  her  eyes  fill- 
ing with  tears.  *'You  know  well  howl  love  your  moth- 
er.'* 

She  is  standing  close  to  him,  looking  upward  with  a 
grieved  expression  on  her  charming  face.  Her  pretty, 
naked,  rounded  arms  hang  loosely  before  her,  the  fingers 
interlaced;  her  eyes,  still  large  and  heavy,  and  drowsy  with 
sleep,  are  full  of  unshed  tears;  and  the  hair  upon  her  brow 
is  a  little  ruffled,  as  if  from  slumber.  Her  white  gown 
clings  to  her  lissom  form.  Never  has  she  looked  so 
lovely. 

*'  I  hardly  know  what  to  say,'*  says  Delaney.  "  Some- 
times I  am  mad,  I  think;  I  know  that — **  Suddenly  he 
falls  on  his  knees  before  her  and  buries  his  face  in  her 


THE    DUCHESS.  165 

gown.  "  My  dadingi  My  belovedl"  he  breathes  passioii- 
itely. 

"  Oh,  remember!  Oh,  shamel"  cries  she,  iu  a  low, 
thriUiug  tone. 

*'  I  do  remember;  all — everything!  Do  yon  think  I 
could  forget?"  He  has  caught  her  haudw  now,  and  is  kiss- 
ing them  feverishly.  "  I  know  what  you  wonld  remind 
me  of — my  engagement,  the  hour,  the  fact  that  we  are 
alone.  But,"  recklessly,  *' I  don't  care.  I  will  speak!" 
Then,  seeing  how  pale  she  grows,  and  how  she  draws  back 
from  him,  "  My  love,  my  sweetheart,  forgive  me.  All  I 
would  say  is  that  I  will  break  this  engagement  with  Kathe- 
rine,  and — "  confusedly,  "  perhaps,  then — " 

**  Why  will  you  break  it?  What  will  you  gain  by  so  do- 
ing? It  seems  to  me  that  you  have  too  quickly  believed 
that  I — I  '* —  putting  up  her  slender,  trembling  hand  to 
her  throat,  "  love  you.  What  cause  have  I  given  you  to 
think  that?  Oh,  dad  I  Oh,  to  be  with  you;  to  be  near 
you!" 

"  'WTiy,  none,"  says  he,  dejectedly.  **  And  yet,**  with 
sudden  fire,  "  there  have  been  moments  for  which  I  would 
barter  all  that  I  possess — when — ** 

''When  you  were  vain  enough  to  imagine  otherwise," 
interrupting  him  hurriedly  and  with  a  painful  flush. 
**  Well — ^you  were  wrong — wrong.** 

She  is  telling  her  lie  with  such  a  miserable  passion  that 
he  does  not  dare  openly  to  disbelieve  her,  but  yet  he  knows. 
Those  large,  sad,  honest  eyes  can  not  withhold  the  truth, 
whatever  the  cruel  lips  may  do. 

"Still,  I  shall  break  with  Katherine,' *  says  he,  af ter  a 


166  THE    DUCHE88. 

pause.     He  had  risen  to  his  feet  some  time  ago,  and  is 

Btaiidiug  before  her  watching  her  gravely.  *'  And  then, 
perhaps,"  very  humbly,  **  in  time  you  might  let  me  tell 
you  all  that  is  in  my  heart  to-night." 

"  Never,  never.  I  shall  not  listen.  WhatI  do  you 
think  I  have  no  pride?  Do  I  want  another  woman's  lover? 
Would  I  have  one  who  had  sworn  allegiance  here  and 
there?    No,  no.'' 

**  So  bo  it.  I  shall  end  this  farce  between  Katherine 
and  myself,  nevertheless,'*  replies  he,  steadfastly. 

"That  must  be  as  you  will.  Good-night,"  says  she, 
holding  out  to  him  a  slim  little  hand  that  trembles.  Her 
eyes  are  downcast,  but  even  as  he  looks  at  her  two  large 
tears  fall  from  beneath  her  lids  and  travel  slowly  down  her 
cheeks.  In  a  moment  his  arms  are  around  her,  he  can 
feel  the  quick  beating  of  her  heart  on  him;  for  a  cruelly 
short  time  she  lies  passive  in  his  embrace,  as  though  tired 
and  beaten,  and  then  she  rouses  herself,  and  with  slender 
palms  pushes  him  from  her,  and  without  word  or  glance 
leaves  the  room. 

Swiftly  she  goes  upstairs  and  locks  herself  into  her  room. 
That  one  moment  of  weakness — of  indecision — has  fright- 
ened her.  She  had  lain  in  his  arms  without  protest  of  any 
sort.  Nay,  more — she  dares  not  deny  it  to  herself— she 
had  been  happy  there.  She  had  been  glad  to  have  them 
round  her.  Even  now,  when  released  from  the  influence 
of  his  presence,  she  knows  that  she  feels  no  anger  toward 
him.  Anger!  Where  is  there  place  for  it  in  the  warm, 
loving,  miserable  heart  that  is  beatrng  so  wildly  in  hei 
breast?    But  w'hat  is  to  be  the  end  of  ii  all?    She  must  ga 


THE    DUCHESS.  167 

She  must  leave  him.  Never,  never,  never  can  ne  be  any- 
thing to  her  save  worse  than  a  stranger  Oh!  that  he  were 
indeed  a  stranger.  Oh!  that  she  could  tear  him  from  her 
heart!  But  it  is  too  late  for  that.  All  her  long  miserable 
life  he  must  lie  there,  cherished  secretly,  wept  over  in  pri- 
vate, loved  with  a  fervor  grown  strong  from  sad  thoughts 
indulged  when  no  one  can  see  her. 

No,  she  could  not  listen  to  that  proposal  of  his  to  end 
his  engagement  with  Katherine.  And  yet  had  she  done  so 
would  it  not  have  been  for  the  welfare  of  all,  even  of 
Katherine;  for  wherem  lies  the  good  to  be  derived  from  a 
loveless  union?  She  covers  her  face  with  her  hands  and 
walks  swiftly  up  and  down  the  silent  chamber. 

But  no  hope  comes  to  her.  His  face  rises  before  her, 
sad,  reproachful,  passionate,  entreating.  He  is  hers,  hers 
only,  by  all  lovers  laws,  and  yet  she  must  thrust  him  from 
her  with  all  her  might.  Oh!  how  miserably  ill  he  looijed. 
Oh,  Denis!    Oh,  darling,  darling!    Oh,  Denis! 

She  has  thrown  herself  on  her  knees  beside  the  bed  and 
buried  her  face  out  of  sight. 


CHAPTER  XXIL 

••  But  now  the  hand  of  fate  is  on  the  curtain, 

And  gives  the  scene  to  light." 

Im"  the  morning  that  tiresome  headache  is  V7orse  thau 
ever.  Norah  manages  to  get  down  to  breakfast,  but  only 
to  play  with  her  toast  and  to  refuse  with  a  glance  of  dia» 
taste  anything  offered  her. 

*'  How  ill  you  look,  darling!^'  says  raadame,  some  boura 


108  THE    DUCHESS. 

later,  meeting  her  in  one  of  the  anterooms,  equipped  fo^ 
walking.  '*  Like  a  little  pretty  gliost.  I  am  so  distressed 
about  it,  and  your  father  coming  to-morrow,  too!  It  ia 
dreadful;  he  will  say  I  have  not  taken  any  care  of  you." 

"  Who  could  have  taken  more?"  says  the  Duchess, 
sweetly,  slipping  au  arm  around  her  neck.  **  You  have 
made  me  feel  always  that  you  love  me.*' 

"Have  I?'*  very  pleased.  "That  is  as  it  should  be, 
then,  and  only  the  barest  truth.  Every  mother  should 
love  her  own  little  daughter."  She  smiles  and  kisses  the 
girl  with  a  lingering  fondness  and  smooths  back  the  soft 
ruffled  locks  from  her  hot  brow. 

"  You  are  quite  feverish,  darling.  Do  you  know  I  am 
growing  really  uneasy  about  you." 

"  It  is  this  headache.'* 

*'  But  what  a  persistent  one.  Will  you  see  Doctor  Mor- 
gan?** 

"  No,  no,  indeed,**  laughing.  **  What  nonsense, 
auntie.  I'll  tell  you,  though,  what  I  think  of  doing.  Of 
going  out  and  staying  out  for  quite  ever  so  long.  Make 
no  excuse  for  me  at  luncheon,  and  don't  expect  me  again 
until  you  see  me.  I  feel  as  if  a  good  dose  of  the  strong 
wild  wind  outside  is  the  one  thing  that  can  blow  those  cob- 
webs out  of  my  brain.  *' 

*'  Then  go,  by  all  means,  dearest.  Try  your  own  medi- 
cine first,  mine  afterward,**  says  madame.  *'  But  before 
you  go — a  biscuit  and  a  glass  of  Madeira.  Come,  now,  I 
insist,  and  for  reward  1*11  tell  any  pretty  fib  you  like  about 
you  at  luncheon.*' 

The  dull  and  cheerless  sun  that  all  day  long  has  bees 


THE    DUCHESS.  169 

making  so  poor  a  pretense  at  jollity  has  at  last  sunk  behind 
the  liills.  Already  daylight  wanes,  and  the  heavy  gusts  of 
wind  that,  rushing  through  the  fir-tops,  stirred  the  wide 
air  since  early  dawn  have  now  gained  in  strength  and  are 
roaring  sullenly  with  a  subdued  force  that  speaks  of  a  vio- 
lent outburst  later  on.  One  or  two  heavy  drops  of  rain 
fall  with  a  quick,  soft  sound  at  Norah's  feet. 

They  rouse  her  from  the  reverie  in  which  she  has  almost 
lost  herself;  rouse  her,  too,  to  a  knowledge  of  the  fact  that 
day  is  nearly  dead,  and  that  the  air  is  full  of  signs  of  the 
coming  storm. 

So  busy  have  been  her  thoughts  during  her  long,  swift 
ramble  through  the  woods  and  over  hills,  and  thence  into 
unknown  woods  again,  that  to  her  it  seems  as  though  it  is 
but  a  little  while  since  she  walked  from  the  broad  stone 
steps  that  lead  to  the  entrance  door  at  Castle  Ventry,  and 
yet,  in  reahty,  how  long  has  it  been? 

She  pauses  to  look  round  her  to  notice  for  the  first  time 
how  swiftly  the  darkness  is  beginning  to  fall;  to  see,  too, 
with  a  vague  yet  sharp  touch  of  fear  that  the  place  wherein 
she  now  stands  is  strange,  unknown  to  her.  Whither  have 
her  restless  feet  carried  her?  All  the  landmarks  by  which 
she  had  been  used  to  guide  herself  are  now  behind  he*:,  lost 
to  her,  unless  she  can  retrace  her  steps  to  some  spot 
familiar. 

A  huge  black"  cloud  has  gathered  overhead  and  is  cover- 
ing all  the  heavens.  A  little,  fine,  white  mist  begins  to 
fall,  a  shadowy  sort  of  shower^  that  presently  declares 
itself  more  openly  and  becomes  an  honest  downpour. 
Larger  and  larger  grow  the  droDS,  darker  and  darker  the 


170  THE    DUCHESS. 

atmosphere,  and  now  that  first  mild  sense  of  fear  gather* 
in  force  and  becomes  uncomfortably  definite. 

Turning,  she  begins  to  walk  briskly  in  the  way  she  be- 
lieves she  has  come,  but  which  in  reality  is  only  taking 
her  the  more  decidedly  from  Ventry.  When  she  has 
walked  in  this  direction  about  twenty  minutes  she 
pauses  and  looks  around  her,  only  to  find  herself  hope- 
lessly astray. 

Blacker  grows  the  leaden  sky  above,  as  seen  in  irregular 
patches  through  the  arching  branches  over  her  head. 
Slowly,  steadily  rises  the  storm;  already  the  wind  begins 
to  rush  past  her  with  a  fierceness  that  makes  her  limbs 
tremble.  Standing  still,  with  her  arm  round  a  sapling  oak 
for  support  and  feeling  a  very  natural  thrill  of  terror  as 
she  acknowledges  to  herself  that  she  scarcely  knows  where 
to  turn,  she  happens  to  lift  her  head,  and  there  on  her 
right  she  sees  an  old  broken-down  cottage,  or  hut  rather, 
close  to  a  tall  fir-tree  that  appears  to  bend  over  it  as  if 
offering  protection. 

It  will  give  shelter  at  least.  Running  toward  it  she 
steps  quickly,  thankfully,  into  the  miserable  one  bare 
room  of  which  it  can  boast.  Dead  leaves,  blown  in  by 
many  winds,  strew  the  earthen  floor.  A  wide  open  chim- 
ney holds  on  its  hearth  the  gray  ashes  of  dead  fires  old  and 
gone. 

The  Duchess,  with  a  sense  of  rather  uncanny  lonelmess, 
looks  with  ungrateful  backward  glances  at  this  spot  that 
Bione  has  held  out  to  her  the  arms  of  pity.  How  long  has 
it  stood  here  a  prey  to  ghosts?  Kot  so  long,  apparently. 
fn  oae  coruer  stands  a  pile  of  rotten  fire  logs,  and  near  it 


IHB   DTTCHESa  171 

t  bundle  of  twigs,  or  *'kippen8,"  as  the  peasants  call 
them,  that  suggest  a  desire  on  the  part  of  the  late  tenants 
to  light  one  more  fire  before  they  should  leave  this  dilapi- 
dated home  forever. 

Through  two  large  holes  in  the  thatched  roof  the  rain  is 
falling  with  a  quick,  steady  drip,  and  Norah,  avoiding  it 
as  best  she  may,  leans  disconsolate  against  the  open  door- 
way and  gazes  with  many  misgivings  on  the  dismal  scene 
without.  It  must  be  now  about  five  o'clock,  according  to 
her  calculation — ^in  reality  it  is  considerably  later — and 
they  will  all  be  now  in  the  library,  some  gathered  round 
the  welcome  tea-tray,  others  lounging  in  pretty  tea-gowns 
in  the  softest  chairs  to  be  found. 

Denis,  too,  will  have  come  in  long  ago  from  his  shooting, 
and  perhaps — perhaps  will  now  be  thinking  of  her  and 
wondering  where  she  is.  A  little  uneasy,  too,  it  may  be. 
She  can  almost  see  his  handsome,  rather  melancholy  face 
of  late,  with  the  eyes  turning  so  constantly  to  the  door. 

Well,  well;  why  think  of  it?  He  may  wonder  and 
watch,  and  long  for  her  coming;  but  of  what  avail  will  it 
all  be?  There  is  no  end  to  it  but  one.  She  will  not  dwell 
upon  it.  Let  her  rather  turn  her  thoughts  to  the  fact  that 
she  is  imprisoned  here  until  the  storm  shall  cease,  and  that 
even  after  that  she  will  not  know  what  direction  to  take  to 
reach  Ventry. 

How  dark  it  grows!  Blacker  and  blacker  frown  the 
heavens.  The  dimmest  twilight  is  all  that  is  left  of  the 
day  just  done.  What  will  they  think  of  her  at  the  Castle? 
With  what  a  contemptuous  sneer  Katherine  will  hint  at 
the  barbarous  bad  taste  of  those  who  can  plunge  so  unrea« 


I7t  THE   DUCHESS, 

BOnably  a  whole  household  into  a  static  of  apprehension  foi 
the  sake  of  their  own  idle  whiinsi    And  besides — 

Great  Heaven !  what  is  that? 

Only  the  report  of  a  gun.  But  coming  through  the 
gathering  darkness  of  the  descending  night  it  strikes  with 
a  cold  terror  at  her  heart.  And  then  all  at  once,  she 
scarcely  knows  why,  that  past  scene  upon  the  gravel  sweep 
stands  out  before  her  mental  gaze  once  more.  Once  again 
the  dog's  yelp  of  agony  sounds  on  the  air;  once  again 
Moloney  is  felled  to  the  ground;  she  sees  him  rise,  and 
mark  again  the  deadly  threat  of  vengeance  in  his  eyes. 

A  fear,  born  of  nothing,  as  true  fears  sometimes  are,  be- 
comes strong  within  her.  Her  heart  beats  fast,  her  hands 
grow  cold,  her  cheek  pales.  How  if  that  murderous 
though  silent  threat  has  been  even  now  fulfilled!  if  even 
now  he,  her  soul's  beloved  lies  powerless,  dead,  with  the 
heavy  cruel  pattering  rain  falling,  falling  always  on  the 
dull  insensate  body. 

It  is  but  a  little  thing  after  this  to  picture  the  white, 
ghastly,  upturned  face,  with  the  dead  staring  eyes,  the 
parted  lips  showing  the  gleaming  teeth  just  a  little.  Oh, 
Heaven!    Oh,  no!    Oh!  no,  no,  no! 

She  shudders  violently,  and  flings  out  her  hands  as 
though  to  ward  ofl:  the  awful  sight;  and,  as  she  thus  stands 
trembling  all  over,  again  that  sharp  sound  rings  through 
the  darkness.  She  clutches  the  door- way,  and  with  dilated 
eyes  stares  outward,  straining  sight  and  hearing. 

Again — close  at  hand  it  now  sounds — rings  out  the  sharp 
crack  of  a,  revolver,  and  following  on  it  the  bang  of  a 
hreech-loader.     To  her  unpracticed  ear  both  sounds  are 


THE   DUCHESa.  178 

alike,  but  for  all  that  instinct  is  alert  within  her,  and  holds 
up  a  warning  hand,  and  not  for  one  moment  is  she  deluded 
bj  the  reasonable  solution  of  tlie  problem  tliat  Denis  on 
his  homeward  way  has  just  knocked  over  a  brace  of  cock. 

Conquering  a  sickening  sensation  that  comes  very  near 
to  fainting,  she  rushes  impetuously  out  of  the  house  and 
through  the  blinding  rain  makes  her  way  to  the  spot  from 
whence  the  sounds  have  come.  To  her  surprise  a  very 
short  run  brings  her  to  a  rise  in  the  ground  that  betrays  to 
her  the  fact  of  a  road  that  lies  just  below  where  she  is 
standing.  A  high  bank,  topped  by  furze  bushes,  hides 
that  part  of  the  wood  where  she  now  stands  from  the  pub- 
lic way,  though  a  dilapidated  gate-way  lower  down  permits 
her  to  see  wliere  the  road  runs.  As  she  draws  nearer  to  ifc 
she  becomes  conscious  that  broken  sounds  are  beginning  to 
fall  upon  her  ears;  panting  breaths,  muttered  curses,  the 
swaying  movements  of  feet.  In  this  moment  she  knows 
as  well  as  tliough  she  can  already  see  hiui  that  Denis  is  on 
the  road,  close  to  that  broken  gate-way,  and  that  he  is 
fighting  fiercely  for  dear  life. 

All  at  once  her  faintness  leaves  her.  A  cold  chill 
rushes  throngli  her,  hardening  every  nerve.  Springing  to 
the  top  of  the  high  bank  she  looks  through  the  forae 
bushes  down  on  the  road  beneath^  and  &qq% — 


174  XBE   DUCHESS. 


CHAPTER  XXm. 

"Courage  is  a  sort  of  armor  to  the  mind,  and  keeps  an  un^rol 
fiome  impression  from  driving  too  deep  into  perception." 

It  is  Denis  she  sees  first.  He  is  facing  her;  whilst  hig 
opponent — who  has  grasped  him  by  the  throat  with  a  sav- 
age grip,  and  is  straining  every  muscle  to  bring  him  to  the 
ground— has  his  back  to  her.  He  is  a  powerful-looking 
man,  and  even  as  Norah  looks  on,  frozen  by  horror,  he 
makes  an  effort  to  bring  down  the  handle  of  the  revolver 
he  carries  upon  Delaney's  head,  with  the  intent  to  hammer 
out  his  brains. 

It  is  evidently  a  struggle  that  can  not  last  long.  De- 
laney's  face  is  already  death  -  like,  rendered  the  more 
ghastly  because  of  the  heavy  drops  of  blood  that  are  run- 
ning down  it  from  a  wound  in  the  forehead,  and  his  coat  is 
torn  away  from  one  arm  that  hangs  helplessly  by  his  side. 
With  the  other  arm  he  still  holds  his  would-be  murderer, 
and  with  the  tenacity  of  his  race  is  still  holding  his  own, 
when  another  would  be  lying  spent  and  insensible. 

To  Norah — who  is  of  his  own  blood,  and  who  can  see  for 
herself  that  unless  succor  is  prompt  the  end  is  very  near — 
this  sight  gives  fresh  courage.  Her  spirit  rises  within  her; 
she  sets  her  teeth  and  looks  swiftly,  keenly  around  her.  A 
short,  heavy  stake,  part  of  the  broken  gate- way,  catches 
her  eye;  she  loses  no  time;  she  moves  quickly  toward  it; 
to  seize  it  noiselessly,  to  spring  once  again  to  that  high 
part  of  the  bank  that  brings  her  right  over  the  assassin's 


THE    DUCHESS.  175 

h&ad  and  within  a  foot  of  him,  takes  her  but  a  minute, 
and  then  I 

With  all  the  strength  of  her  strong  young  arms  she  lifta 
the  heavy  piece  of  wood  well  above  her  shoulder,  and 
brings  it  down  again  with  unerring  precision  right  upon 
the  scoundrel's  pate! 

Like  a  stone  he  drops,  half  dragging  Denis  with  him, 
but  the  girl,  jumping  into  the  road,  catches  him  as  he 
falls,  and  holds  him  upright  still  with  loving  arms.  Even 
now,  as  at  last  insensibility  overpowers  him,  as  deadly 
stupor  benumbs  his  every  sense,  he  knows  her. 

"  My  beloved!  My  own  little  girl!"  he  breathes  faint- 
ly, with  but  a  poor  attempt  indeed  at  the  old  fond  smile, 
yet  with  love  unspeakable  in  his  fast-closing  eyes.  He 
makes  a  vain  effort  to  hold  out  his  hands  to  her,  and  then 
falls  inertly  against  the  bank. 

And  now  it  comes  to  Norah  to  do  what  she  never  after- 
ward can  remember  doing,  or  understand  how  she  had  the 
power  to  accomplish  it.     But 

"  The  God  of  love,  alij  benedice, 
How  mighty  and  how  great  a  Lord  is  Hel" 

Surely  He  helps  her  now.  Looking  at  him,  lying  there  in 
that  awful  swoon,  it  seems  to  her  that  she  dare  not  leave 
him  alone  with  the  murderer  beside  him  whilst  she  runs 
for  help.  "What  if  the  man  were  to  recover  whilst  she  was 
away?  What  if  he  be  not  dead?  Pooi*,  little,  tender- 
hearted Duchess!  Let  her  not  be  thought  unwomanly  if 
in  this  supreme  moment  she  hopes  passionately  that  she 
has  killed  the  man  who  would  have  slain  her  lover,  and 
only  fears  that  she  has  not  done  so. 


170  THE   DUCHESS. 

WTiat  if  he  should  rise  and  finish  his  ghastly  work  whilat 
bIio  ran  blindly  along  an  miknown  road  to  gain  that  assist- 
ance she  miglit  never  meet!  Moisture  rises  to  her  brow  aa 
she  thinks  it  all  out,  and  then  all  at  once  she  abandons 
that  idea  of  gaining  help,  and  with  one  quick  in-drawn 
breath  steadies  herself  for  the  work  she  is  determined  to 
do  this  night  or  die  in  the  attempt. 

Stooping,  she  encircles  Denis  with  her  arms,  and  pres- 
ently has  drawn  him,  first  toward  the  broken  gate- way,  then 
through  it;  through  the  blessed  opening  that  permits  her 
to  drag  him  out  of  view  of  that  cruel  figure  on  the  ground 
into  the  safer  shelter  of  the  woods  beyond. 

Yard  by  yard — sobbing,  panting,  Avith  her  fear  and  her 
fatigue  pressing  sorely  on  her,  yet  never  discouraged — she 
slowly  and  ever  more  slowly,  as  the  willing  arms  grow  so 
deadly  weary,  drags  him  to  the  protection  of  that  lonely 
hut,  close  to  the  fir-tree. 

Even  when  she  has  got  him  in  and  laid  him  softly  down* 
ward,  with  the  poor  broken  arm  as  comfortably-settled  aa 
she  can  manage  it,  her  zeal  for  his  welfare  does  not  relax. 
Off  her  own  tender  body  she  strips  her  sealskin  coat,  a 
present  from  her  auntie,  to  make  a  pillow  for  his  head, 
and  then,  not  thinking  it  high  enough — careless  of  cold,  of 
discomfort,  nay,  dead  to  tliem — she  slips  off  her  flannel 
petticoat  and  adds  that  to  the  coat. 

Not  until  she  has  done  all  this  does  she  permit  herself  to 
kneel  beside  him  and  look  into  his  face! 

Is  it  his  face,  that  calm,  still,  motionless  mask,  all 
streaked  and  dyed  with  blood,  blood  still  flowing?  She 
has  been  so  engrossed  hitherto  with  her  terrible  task  of 


THE    DUCHESS.  177 

bringing  him  here  that  the  idea  that  her  labor  might  be  in 
vain — that  death  might  ah-eady  have  robbed  her  of  what 
she  most  values  upon  earth — has  not  suggested  itself;  but 
now  it  comes,  and  a  very  agony  of  despair  takes  possession 
of  her.  Nearer  she  leans  over  him,  still  nearer,  her  miser- 
able eyes  clinging  to  his  death-like  face.  What  a  horrible 
pallor  is  that  upon  his  cheek!  how  sunken  are  the  eyes 
within  their  sockets,  how  cruelly  calm  the  mouth!  Is — is 
be  dead? 

Oh!  no,  no,  no!  Not  dead!  Hurt,  hurt  nigh  unto 
death,  if  it  must  be,  but  oh !  not  dead,  indeed !  Her  very 
soul  uplifts  itself  in  supplication.  Maimed,  suffering, 
broken  let  him  be — but  grant  that  life  still  lingers  within 
his  bruised  body. 

"  Oh!  Thou  loving  LordI  by  whom  all  prayers  are 
heard;  hear  mine.*' 

Softly,  tremulously,  she  entreats;  and  now  with  nervous 
fingers  she  loosens  his  coat  and  feels  for  the  heart  that 
should  beat  beneath.  And  after  a  minute  (who  shall  say 
what  ages  lie  in  itr)  a  faint  pulsation  rewards  her.  He 
lives!    As  yet,  at  least,  the  vital  spark  is  in  him. 

But  how  to  keep  it  there?  Deftly  she  tears  first  her 
own  handkerchief  and  then  his  into  strips  and  binds  them 
round  his  brow.  The  search  for  his  handkerchief  has 
brought  to  light  a  small  flask  which,  to  her  joy,  contains 
brandy;  but  though  she  tries,  even  with  her  fingers,  to  get 
some  between  his  lips,  she  fails  to  make  him  swallow  it. 

And  now  again  terror  drives  her  almost  wild.  Can  she 
do  nothing?  AVill  no  one  ever  come  to  her  aid?  She  runs 
to  the  door- way  with  a  vehement  determination  to  rush 


178  TEE   DUCHESS. 

through  all  the  blinding  storm  in  search  of  help.  But  as 
she  crosses  the  threshold  she  looks  back  and,  seeing  him 
lying  there  so  quiet,  to  all  appearance  so  lifeless,  her  heart 
grows  weak  within  her  and  her  courage  fails.  Alas  I  too, 
even  if  she  were  to  venture  forth,  whither  could  she  go? 
The  place  is  strange  to  her;  she  would  not  know  which 
way  to  turn,  and  if  she  were  to  wander  too  far  in  this  gath- 
ering darkness  and  fail  to  make  her  way  back  again,  what 
might  not  happen  to  him  before  morn  in  her  absence, 
alone,  unattended,  deserted?  Oh,  no,  she  can  not  leave 
him. 

A  vague  hope  that  they  will  be  rescued  later  on  by  mes- 
sengers from  Ventry  gives  her  some  wavering  comfort,  but 
in  truth  her  jsresent  fears  are  so  many  that  comfort  in  the 
future  is  quickly  ousted.  It  is  so  cold,  too — so  bitterly 
chill.  She  looks  longingly  p,t  the  dry  sticks  lying  on  the 
hearth,  but  even  though  she  knows  that  by  the  aid  of  the 
vestas  she  has  found  in  his  pocket  when  looking  for  tho 
flask  she  can  set  fire  to  them,  she  shrinks  from  doing  so,  a 
nervous  horror  lest  the  smoke  shall  betray  his  resting-place 
to  the  enemy  restraining  her. 

She  takes  one  of  his  hands  in  hers  and  feels  it  is  cold  as 
ice — his  very  lips,  as  she  lays  her  fingers  on  them,  seem 
frozen.  She  draws  off  her  sole  remaining  petticoat  and 
wraps  it  round  him,  with  despair  fast  gathering  at  her 
heart.     Oh,  to  light  that  fire! 

And  now  a  determination  enters  into  her  that  is  only 
part  of  the  great  courage  that  has  all  through  supported 
her.  Silently  she  leaves  the  cabin,  and  cautiously,  with 
her  heart  in  her  throat,  steals  down  to  that  high  bank  that 


THE    DUCHESS.  179 

overlooks  the  road.  Some  faint  light  shows  beyond  the 
depth  of  the  wood,  and  cautiously  she  peers  through  the 
furze  bushes  to  that  spot  whereon  the  man  had  lain.  It 
was  Moloney,  she  knew,  at  that  first  awful  moment,  but 
now  she  looks  for  his  stalwart  frame  in  vain.  No  man  is 
here!  She  casts  her  eyes  quickly  up  and  down  the  road 
for  many  yards — as  far,  indeed,  as  her  eyes  can  pierce  the 
gloom — only  to  find  that  it  is  empty. 

It  is  plain  then  that  she  had  not  killed  him!  He  had 
evidently  recovered  sufficiently  to  enable  him  to  make  his 
way  home,  and,  terrified  by  the  thought  that  succor  in 
some  unaccountable  fashion  had  come  to  his  victim,  had 
hidden  himself  away  as  far  from  the  spot  of  his  attempted 
crime  as  possible. 

With  a  lightened  heart  Norah  runs  back  to  the  cabin, 
and  seizing  the  matches  sets  fire  to  some  dry  leav^es,  that, 
easily  igniting,  presently  coax  the  large  bimdle  of  sticks 
into  a  flame.  Cheerily  they  blaze,  throwing  out  a  delicious 
glow  that  warms  whatever  it  touches.  She  draws  Denis  as 
close  up  to  it  as  prudence  will  permit,  and  once  again  tries 
to  force  the  brandy  between  his  lips — this  time  with  some 
success.  And  at  last,  at  last,  he  moves  a  little  and  sighs 
and  finally  opens  his  eyes. 

*'  You,  my  love,'^  he  says  very  low,  with  a  faint  smile, 
and  as  though  not  at  all  surprised.  So  near  to  the  gates 
of  death  has  he  been  brought  that  all  emotions,  save  the 
one  absorbing  passion  of  his  life,  are  forgotten  by  him; 
and  indeed  so  weak  is  he  that  almost  as  she  believes  she 
has  gained  him  back  again  from  the  portals  we  all  dread 
for  those  we  love — even  as  she  tries  to  answer  him — he 


L80  THE    DUCHESS. 

faints  again,  leaving  her  once  more  to  watch  out  the  long 
dark  liours  of  nisht  alone. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

"  I  felt  a  tightness  grasp  my  throat; 
As  it  would  strangle  me." 

It  is  now  far  past  midnight,  and  still  the  storm  rages 
overhead.  Heavy  bursts  of  thunderous  rain  dash  against 
the  walls  of  the  cabin,  and  through  the  open  door-way  the 
inky  blackness  of  the  night  looks  in  upon  her  as  she  sits 
cowering,  shivering  by  the  hearth,  her  eyes  ever  fixed  upon 
the  motionless  figure  beside  her. 

Every  now  and  then  she  rises  to  chafe  the  uninjured 
hand,  to  listen  for  the  faint  breathing,  to  wash  away  the 
marks  of  blood  upon  the  wan  face.  Little  by  little  she  has 
made  him  swallow  most  of  the  brandy  the  flask  contained, 
and  now  with  a  sad  heart  she  sits  watching  for  the  dawn. 

Will  be  last  till  then?  And  even  then  is  she  sure  she 
can  make  her  way  home  in  a  hurry?  And — and — when 
she  gets  there  what  will  her  welcome  be — what  will  she  say 
—how  give  an  account  of  herself?  How  is  she  to  tell 
them  that  she  has  spent  the  night — the  long,  long,  terrible 
night — alone  with  him  in  this  hut?  Katherine's  face  rises 
before  her  once  again — the  bitter  scorn  of  it — the  cruol 
contempt — the  wicked  meaning. 

A  thousand  times  she  assures  herself  that  no  one  can 
dare  say  a  word  to  her  prejudice  when  the  truth,  in 
Denis's  shattered  person,  lies  before  them;  and  yet  for  all 
that  she  knows  that  unkind  commeut  will  be  made,  aod 


THE    DUCHESS,  181 

dirinks  from  the  thought  of  it  with  a  rather  undue  horror 
In  this  dark  liour  slie  remembers  how  Katherine  is  mis- 
tress of  her  secret;  remembers,  too,  little  meaning,  kindly 
smiles  and  innuendoes  from  Nancy  and  Lady  Glandore, 
and  knows  full  well  that  her  unhappy  aSection  for  her 
cousin,  if  not  shouted,  has  at  least  been  whispered  on  the 
house-tops. 

Yes,  it  is  all  over.  This  melancholy  night  spent  here  in 
this  desolate  cabin  will  never  be  forgotten  by  her  world — • 
never!  It  seems  to  her,  in  the  morbid  state  into  which  she 
now  has  fallen,  that  for  the  future  she  will  be  a  sort  of 
outcast,  an  Irish  pariah,  as  it  were,  amongst  her  tribe. 
One  little  drop  of  comfort  falls  into  her  cup  of  misery. 
To-morrow — nay,  to-day — her  dad  is  coming  to  Ventry. 
To  this  thought,  which  is  the  very  sweetest  imaginable  to 
her  sorely  troubled  spirit,  she  clings  eagerly;  in  it  she  has 
indeed  "  great  store  of  bliss  " — for  when  did  her  dad  ever 
thiuk  evil  "where  no  evil  was? — and  if  all  the  world  were 
against  her  would  not  that  be  to  him  one  reason  the  more 
for  declaring  himself  more  openly  upon  her  side — dear, 
darhngdad? 

A  heavy  sigh  falls  from  her,  and  moving  uneasily  upon 
her  seat — a  heap  of  sticks — she  suddenly  becomes  aware 
that  Denis  has  his  eyes  open  and  is  looking  at  her. 

"  Is  that  you.  Duchess?" 

The  voice  is  low,  so  faint  indeed  as  to  be  half  inaudible, 
but  ''lovers'  ears  are  sharp  to  hear,^*  and  Norah,  rising, 
bends  eagerly  over  him. 

"Yes.  I  am  here,"  she  whispers,  tenderly.  She 
kneels  upon  the  ground  beside  him,  and  softly,  lovingly, 


189  TBB   DUOHESa. 

lays  her  cool  hand  upon  his  forehead.    It  Is  throbbing  vio* 

lenily;  but  the  wet  bandage  has  evidently  been  of  some 
use,  as  the  blood  has  ceased  to  flow.  Feebly  lifting  the 
uninjured  arm,  he  draws  down  the  little  comforting  hand 
until  it  touches  his  lips. 

*'  My  beloved,  this  is  a  bad  thing  for  you,'*  he  whispers 
with  difficulty.  "  Can  you  not  go  home?  You  are  giv- 
ing up  too  much  for  me." 

"  Not  so  much  as  you  imagine,"  whispers  she  back, 
smiling.  "I  have  lost  my  way,  do  you  know?  I  can't 
go;  so  you  see  I  am  not  doing  very  much  for  you  after 
all.'' 

"  I  know  better  than  that,"  the  words  come  slowly,  dis- 
connectedly, and  as  if  the  utterance  of  them  hurts  him. 
"But  I  shall  explain.  I'll  make  them  understand  if  I 
last  till  then — if — "  He  breaks  off  with  a  heavy  sigh  that 
is  almost  a  groan,  and  makes  a  vain  effort,  that  is  very 
pitiable  in  one  so  strong,  to  change  his  position. 

*'  You  are  in  pain?"  says  !Norah,  miserably. 

**  No.  But  tired — tired,"  murmurs  he,  wearily.  Then, 
seeing  her  abont  to  rise,  he  clasps  her  hand  closer. 
"  Don't  gol  Stay  with  me.  Oh!  darling,  if  I  am  to  die 
now — after  this — with  the  knowledge  that  you  love  me,  it 
will  be  hard— hard  1" 

"  Do  not  try  to  talk,"  entreats  she,  raising  him  with  all 
her  strength  and  so  turning  him  that  he  will  find  relief. 
**  Do  not — you  are  only  wasting  the  little  power  left  you. 
Now,  are  you  better,  more  comfortable?" 

**  I  am  happier  than  I  have  ever  been  in  all  my  life. 
Obi  Duchess,  what  shall  repay  you?    Not  I — I  can  noL 


THE   DUCH£8«,  188 

Bat — **    He  pauses  as  though  he  has  lost  hhnself,  and  a 

Bad  wild  light  grows  witliin  his  eyes.  "  You  should  not 
be  here.  You  must  go — go — oi'  else  she  will  have  her 
gibes — her  sneers — she — she — " 

He  has  wandered  again,  but  mercifully  those  cruel  im- 
aginings soon  come  to  an  end,  as  he  sinks  once  more  into 
the  old  lethargy  and  lies  as  if  dead,  save  for  the  faint 
breathings  that  make  themselves  heard  now  and  then. 

Beside  him,  her  hand  still  clasped  in  his,  Norah  sits 
quietly,  her  head  bent  upon  her  knees.  And  presently  on 
tired  thought  kindly  sleep  descends  and  conquers  it,  and 
soon  all  is  forgotten.  Oh,  blessed,  health-giving  uncon- 
Bciousness,  where  would  the  tried  ones  of  the  earth  find  rest 
if  thou  wert  withdrawn? 

It  is  dawn  as  with  a  pang  of  acutest  fear  she  wakes. 
Nay,  more  than  dawn.  The  day  is  well  awake,  and  on 
the  mountain  tops  the  first  fine  clouds  of  coming  morn  are 
dissolving  beneath  the  sun's  warm  rays.  Springing  to  her 
feet  Norah  turns  a  terrified  glance  upon  Delaney,  to  find 
that  he  still  breathes,  and  with  a  rush  of  thankfulness  she 
bends  over  him  and  presses  the  last  few  precious  drops  of 
brandy  between  his  lips.  She  knows  perfectly  the  task 
that  now  lies  before  her,  and,  having  heaped  the  few  re- 
maining sticks  on  the  still  glowing  embers,  she  prepares 
for  departure  and  a  return  to  the  place  where  a  severe 
cross-examination,  as  she  believes,  awaits  her. 

At  the  door  she  looks  back,  and  something — is  it  the 
helplessness  of  his  attitude  or  the  utter  forlornness  of  him 
—touches  her.  In  a  moment  she  is  by  his  side  again;  she 
is  leaning  over  himj  softly  her  loving  fingers  brush  back 


IM  TBE    DUCHESS. 

the  short  hair  from  his  brow;  long,  long  she  gazes  at  hinii 
as  one  might  upon  their  dead,  with,  in  her  case,  an  in- 
tensity born  of  the  fear  that  it  may  be  for  the  last  time. 
Those  wretched  ones  whose  beloved  are  already  dead  may 
be  counted  happy  in  comparison  with  those  who  still  wait 
upon  their  dying,  fighting  each  minute  with  the  Tyrant 
who  conquers  all  things — love  and  hate  and  pride  and  lust 
and  jealousy  and  envy  and  all  uncharitableness. 

Is'orah,  kneeling  beside  him,  feels  as  though  indeed  this 
were  a  last  farewell,  and  at  the  thought  her  heart  fails 
her,  and  she  bursts  out  crying.  She  dares  not  believe  the 
terrible  idea  that  so  obstinately  forces  itself  upon  her,  or 
else  (she  knows)  she  will  never  be  able  to  summon  the 
courage  to  leave  him;  yet  go  she  must  for  his  sake. 

She  presses  her  lips  to  his  hand,  and  then,  emboldened 
by  his  unconsciousness  and  strengthened  by  the  innocent 
love  she  bears  him  (it  is,  after  all,  but  a  little  the  more), 
she  stoops  and  gives  him  soft,  gentle,  loving  kisses  upon 
cheeks  aud  hair  and  forehead,  and,  at  last,  after  some 
faint,  honest  hesitation,  his  lips,  too!  Cold,  unresponsive 
lips!  but  all  the  dearer  because  of  the  sad  reason  for  their 
coldnessi 

Then,  now  bitterly  weeping,  she  runs  out  of  the  cabin, 
and  gaining  the  road  turns,  without  knowing  why,  to  the 
right.  All  roads,  indeed,  are  alike  to  her,  so  great  is  her 
ignorance  of  her  locality,  but  unfortunately  instinct,  if  one 
may  call  it  so,  has  in  this  instance  led  her  aright.  It  haa 
stood  to  her  so  well  that  half  an  hour's  brisk  walking 
brings  her  within  view  of  the  gilded  vane  of  Ventry,  glit- 
tering gayly  in  the  morning  sunlight. 


THS    DU0UE8&  186 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

"  Back- wounding  calumny 
The  whitest  virtue  strikes;  what  king  so  strong 
Can  tie  the  gall  up  in  the  slanderer's  tonguef ' 

At  Ventry  the  utmost  conaternation  holds  full  sway. 
During  all  the  past  evening  questions  had  been  rife^  first 
as  to  the  strange  non-appearance  of  Norah,  and  later  on 
about  the  continued  absence  of  Delaney,  and  presently,  aa 
the  evening  wore  on,  every  one — as  if  bracketing  them — 
began  to  wonder,  in  a  rather  aside  sort  of  way.,  aa  to  where 
they  could  be. 

Until  dinner  was  over,  however,  no  very  grcsat  alarm 
was  felt,  even  by  madame.  The  night  was  so  inclement 
that  probably  Norah  had  been  kept  at  the  rectory,  and 
Denis,  who  had  gone  shooting  in  that  direction,  would,  in 
all  probability,,  have  been  compelled  by  the  hospitable 
O'Shaughnessys  to  stay  and  dine  with  them.  At  least  so 
argued  madame  up  to  nearly  eleven  o'clock,  with  the  in- 
tent to  allay  the  nervous  fear  that  already  was  beginning 
to  find  a  homo  within  her  breast. 

But  when  midnight  came  and  neither  Norah  nor  Denis 
had  returned,  her  assumed  calm  broke  down,  and  she  gave 
way  openly  to  the  terror  that  was  consuming  her.  Mes 
sengers  were  at  once  sent  out,  to  the  rectory  first,  and 
then  on  to  the  0'Shaughnessy*s,  and  as  the  two  houses  were 
many  miles  apart,  much  time  was  lost  in  this  vain  qneak 


186  THE  crciresi. 

When  the  men  returned,  with  Colonel  O'Shaughnessy,  who 
was  always  eager  for  the  fray,  and  the  kindest  soul  alive — 
a  regular  "  emergency  man,''  if  ever  there  was  one — to 
say  nothing  was  known  of  either  Norah  or  Delaney  at 
either  of  the  houses,  madame's  fear  grew  to  agony,  and 
the  whole  male  portion  of  the  household  was  turned  out 
with  lanterns  and  overcoats  to  search  high  and  low. 
Colonel  O'Shaughnessy  undertook  the  command;  but  the 
night,  as  we  know,  was  terrible,  and,  unfortunately,  ma- 
dame  was  under  the  impression  that  Norah  had  gone  in  a 
direction  diametrically  opposite  to  that  she  had  really 
chosen.  As  for  Denis,  who  shall  say  where  a  sportman's 
feet  will  take  him? 

The  servants,  too,  and  the  out-door  contingent  were  only 
half-hearted  in  their  search  for  the  missing  pair.  Noth- 
ing so  sharp  as  an  Irishman,  if  you  can  get  him  to  put  his 
heart  into  a  thing;  but  the  Irish  peasantry,  as  a  rule,  have 
a  fatal  knack  of  forming  conclusions  for  themselves— on 
every  topic  under  the  sun  that  is  at  all  known  to  them — 
and  worse  still,  acting  on  them;  and,  as  the  specimens  em- 
ployed on  this  occasion  had  come  to  a  unanimous  decision 
that  *' Misther  Dinis  an'  Miss  Norah"  were  far  too 
"  cute  '*  to  lose  thesmelves  in  any  storm,  the  search, 
though  seemingly  vigorous  and  indeed  very  kindly,  if  pro- 
testmgly,  conducted,  was  in  reality  but  poorly  carried  out, 
and  (as  we  also  know)  resulted  in  nothing. 

The  gray  morning  brought  to  madame  no  tidings  of 
either  niece  or  son.  All  night  long  she  had  spent  pacing 
up  and  do"RTi  her  room,  and  from  her  room  down  the  broad 
staircase,  and  through  the  spacious  hal\  to  the  entrance 


THE  Dfciruss.  187 

door,  where,  having  ordered  it  to  be  flung  wide  open,  she 
would  stand  awhile,  silent,  motionless,  listening  as  one 
might  for  a  cry  from  afar  for  help.  But  none  came,  and 
nothing  was  left  her  but  the  slow,  hopeless  journey  back 
again  to  her  desolate  chamber.  With  the  first  flush  of  the 
dawn  despair  seized  upon  her. 

It  is  now  seven  o'clock,  and  the  dull  daylight  is  putting 
the  lamps  to  shame.  One  by  one  the  footman  extinguishes 
them  in  the  library,  where  madame,  with  Lady  Glandore, 
Miss  Blake,  and  some  of  the  others,  is  walking  up  and 
down,  waiting,  waitmg  always,  as  she  has  waited  since  ten 
o'clock  last  night.  She  is  still  in  her  dinner-dress  of  black 
velvet,  and  her  face  is  ghastly  pale;  from  one  side  of  the 
room  to  the  other  she  walks  incessantly,  not  talking,  but 
always  with  that  terrible  look  of  expectancy  upon  her 
face.     What  is  it  she  expects? 

To  her,  as  to  Norah,  the  face  of  the  man  Moloney  has 
stood  out  clearly,  with  a  horrible  persistency,  all  through 
the  changes  of  the  past  miserable  night. 

Lady  Glandore,  who  has  risen  out  of  her  languor  and 
her  rather  hot-house  style  to  quite  an  extraordinary  de- 
gree, has  ordered  coffee,  and  now  tries  to  induce  her  to 
partake  of  it.  But  madame  repulses  her  with  a  harshness 
hitherto  unknown  to  that  sweet  and  kindly  nature. 

"  No,  no,"  she  says,  hoarsely,  almost  pushing  Lady 
Glandore  away  from  her. 

*'  But,  dearest  madame,  consider,"  says  that  spoiled 
beauty,  taking  her  rebuff  with  the  utmost  mildness. 
"  This  may  be,  after  all,  only  a  dreadfully  mistaken  affair 
all  through,  and  when  presently  they  come  back,  we — " 


188  THB   DUGHBttk 

"Theyr 

Madame  looks  at  ber  gtrangely,  qnestionmgly,  as  if  not 

understanding,  and  then  all  at  once  a  slow  red  barns  like 
fire  upon  her  cheeks.  She  is  expecting  the»n,  of  course, 
but  something  in  the  way  Lady  Glandoro  has  spoken  haa 
widened  her  vision,  and  Bhown  her  a  solution  of  the  prob> 
lem  hitherto  unthought  of. 

"  He— Denis/*  stammers  Lady  Glandore,  coloring  in 
turn  and  altering  her  mistake  a  little  too  late. 

'*  You  think?"  says  madame,  fixing  her  with  her  large, 
bright  gaze,  grown  brighter  since  her  unhappy  vigil. 

"  And  even  if  so — dear  madame,  would  it  not  be  better 
than — '*  Lady  Glandore  pauses,  a  little  frightened  and 
confused,  yet  sure  that  there  has  suddenly  come  into  ma- 
dame's  despairing  face  an  expression  that  is  nearer  hope 
than  anything  she  has  seen  there  since  yesterday.  She  is 
still  struggling  with  a  desire  to  say  a  little  more  to  the 
same  effect,  when  the  necessity  for  it  is  removed  by  the 
abrupt  entrance  of  some  one. 

All  eyes  are  tnrned  to  the  door^  and  a  little  breathless 
hush  falls  upon  those  who  form  an  audience,  to  what  sug- 
gests itself  as  being  very  likely  to  create  a  scene  of  a  rather 
tragic  order.  There  is  a  clear  promise  of  it,  indeed,  in 
the  very  way  Katherine  enters  the  room.  For  one  thing, 
she  is  remtukably  pale,  and  it  must  be  some  powerful  emo- 
tion indeed,  something  worse  than  mere  anxiety,  to  create 
emotion  of  so  high  an  order  in  that  well-regulated  mind; 
and  besides  this,  for  once  the  calm,  supercilious  month  is  a 
little  from  under  control. 

It  hardly  takes  her  a  moment  to  get  from  the  door  to 


THE    DUCHESS.  18& 

where  madame  is  standing,  quite  still  now,  and  as  misera 
ble  as  human  being  can  be.  The  opening  of  the  door  that 
had  brought  no  tidings  had  been  one  disappointment  th© 
more.  For  a  little  while  the  two  women  regard  each  other 
critically,  uncertainly,  and  then  madame  by  an  effort 
breaks  the  silence  that  has  become  almost  painfuL 

'*  You  have  heard  some  news,"  she  says,  with  dry  lips, 
"  of  Denis?" 

*'  Of  DeniB?  No;  I  don*t  expect  any."  Then,  with  a 
cold  uplifting  of  her  brows,  and  a  colder  smile,  *'  Do  jou?'* 

"  What  else  is  there  to  expect?"  says  madame,  trem- 
ulously, her  eyes  dilating. 

"  A  great  deal,  as  it  seems  to  me;  but  you  must  wait  for 
a  post  or  two.  As  for  me,  I  have  been  thinking — the 
night  has  been  long — and  I  have  quite  thought  it  all  out. " 
Her  voice  is  so  clear  as  to  be  positively  grating.  "  There 
is,  in  my  opinion,  no  longer  room  for  conjecture.  As  I 
tell  you,  the  post-bag  is  the  one  thing  to  look  forward  to. 
I  felt  it  to  be  my  duty  to  come  down  and  warn  you  of  the 
truth.  Don't  look  for  Denis— look  for  the  post."  A  low, 
contemptuous  laugh  escapes  her.  Madame,  drawing  back 
a  step  or  two,  looks  with  such  heartfelt  unhappiuess 
around  her,  that  Lady  Glandore  at  once  steps  into  the 
breach. 

"  You  are  pleased  to  be  enigmatical,"  she  says,  turning 
rather  bellicose  eyes  on  Miss  Cazalet,  between  whom  and 
herself  indeed  little  love  is  lost.  **  But  if  you  could  ex- 
plain yourself,  and  put  what  you  have  so  evidently  come  to 
■ay  into  language  adapted  to  our  intellects,  it  would  be,  J 
think,  ft  kindness  to— madame.     As  you  see,'*  sharply, 


110  VHE    DUCHES& 

"  she  is  anflering;  come,  let  hor  know  at  onoe  what  yon 
think  the  post  will  tell  her.'* 

**  Of  her  son's  marriage  to  that  little  adventaress,*' re- 
ttkrns  Katherine,  with  a  venomous  flash  from  her  blue 
eyes;  **  I  warned  you,'*  turning  to  madame  with  a 
touch  of  rage  that  all  her  cleverness  can  not  conceal — *'  I 
told  you  what  the  end  would  be  if  you  persisted  in  keeping 
that  wily  wretch  here;  I  showed  you  what  she  would  do 
with  him  when  the  time  was  ripe;  but  you  would  not  lis- 
ten. You  permitted  her  to  deceive  you,  as  she  has  de- 
ceived hintf  but — "  facing  round  upon  the  room  and  speak- 
ing with  a  slow,  deliberate  enunciation,  **  I  tell  you  all, 
that  she  has  never  deceived  me.  Here,"  laying  a  letter 
slowly  and  with  care  upon  the  table,  "  is  a  letter  from  Sir 
Brandrum  Boileau  (who  you  know  left  last  night  when  the 
truth  of  this  disgraceful  elopement  first  dawned  upon  us,) 
asking  me  to  throw  up  my  engagement  to — to  my  cousin." 

She  beats  her  hand  slowly  upon  the  table  as  she  says  this 
in  a  curiously  compressed  fashion,  and  then  goes  on  again 
as  if  no  pause  had  occurred. 

"  Asking  me  also  to  marry  him.  As  I  have  already 
said,  I  have  thought  out  this — this  vile  affair — during  a 
long  night,  and  to-day  I  have  sent  Sir  Brandrum  an  ac- 
ceptance of  his  offer.  You  are  all  witnesses,"  lifting  her 
head  and  gazing  defiantly  around  her,  "  that  before  I  heard 
whether  Dennis  was  dead  or  married,  or," — she  laughs 
shortly,  cruelly — **  merely  gone  for  a  tour  with  her,  I  de- 
cidedly gave  him  up,  and  accepted  Sir  Brandrum.  You 
all  hear?    You  are  all  witnesses  I" 

The  poor,  miserable,  egotistical  pride  of  her,  that  rises 


THE    DUCllKSS.  1^1 

above  and  crashes  under  foot  aH  womanly  feeling  for 
the  terrible  grief  of  the  unhappy  mother,  strikes  a  chill  t€ 
the  heart  of  those  present.  Mrs.  0\Shaughnessy,  who  had 
come  over  with  the  davvu,  is  the  only  one  equal  to  the  oc- 
casion. 

*'  Weill  You're  the  poorest  creature  I  know!"  says 
she,  with  an  emphatic  shake  of  her  head.  Miss  Oazalet 
takes  not  the  slightest  notice  of  her. 

''You  hear?  You  will  remember?**  she  repeats,  des- 
potically, with  a  little  stamp  of  her  foot. 

"  It  is  difficult  to  remember  anything  just  now,  except 
madame*s  grief  and  anxiety,  and  this  wearing  suspense,*' 
says  Miss  Blake,  gravely,  with  a  cold  stare.  "  Pray  try  to 
remember  that — you  have  some  small  consideration  for 
her!*' 

"What  consideration  is  there  for  me?'*  demanded 
Katherine,  turning  upon  her  as  though  she  would  annihi- 
late her.  "  Am  1  nothing?  Am  I  not  to  be  considered  too?*' 

"Afterward!  If  this  idle  imagining  of  yours  should 
prove  true!"  drily. 

"  If?  Have  you  still  a  doubt  then?  But  you  have  noti** 
triumphantly.  '*  Your  eyes  betray  you!  It  is  as  clear  to 
you  as  it  is  to  me.  *  Do  not  expect  me  till  you  see  me,' 
ehe  said  to  madame,  her  '  Auntie,*  whom  she  so  loved  and 
caressed,  and,**  savagely,  "played  upon!  Yes,  you  too 
know  that  she  has  run  away  with  him.** 

"  Well,  at  least,  I  hope  so,**  returns  Miss  Blake,  com- 
posedly. 

Katherine  would  have  answered  this,  but  a  toach  apon 
her  arm  checks  her. 


19%  THE  ni'cnEsa. 

*•  Do  yott  reall^/  believe  it?  Do  you  think  it  is  tru^* 
asks  madame,  in  a  low,  austeady  tone,  her  eyes  seeming  to 
burn  into  the  other's,  as  though  with  a  determination  to 
force  her  real  meaning  from  her.  Something  in  their  ex- 
treme earnestness,  yet  apart  from  it — something  quick  and 
bright,  and  altogether  diCfe rent  from  the  misery  that  shone 
in  them  awhile  since,  betrays  itself  to  Miss  Cazalet.  She 
flings  off  her  aunt's  clinging  fingers  with  a  passionate  gest- 
ure. 

"You  are  glad,"  she  says,  in  an  indescribable  tone; 
**  you  hope  it  may  be  so.  The  very  idea  has  given  you  new 
life.  Is  that  what  I  am  to  learn  now,  after  all  these  years? 
You  would  gladly  take  this  girl  to  your  heart.  You  would 
condone  this  odious  offense  of  hers?" 

*'  Oh,  that  I  could  know  that  he  lives,"  falters  madame, 
clasping  her  hands. 

"You  would  sacrifice  all  to  thsit— his  honor — mine. 
"While  I,"  she  draws  her  breath  quickly,  "  I  wish  I  could 
see  him  now,  this  moment,  dead  at  my  feet."  She  looks 
on  the  ground  as  she  says  this,  and  spreads  out  her  hands, 
palms  downward,  as  though  picturing  him  to  herself  there. 
His  mother,  with  a  little  sharp,  gasping  cry,  shrinks  away 
from  her. 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  nol"  she  says,  faintly.  *'  Anything  but 
that!  Oh!  to  see  him  once  again  alive  —  alivel  Ohl 
Denis.  Oh!  my  son!— my  child!"  With  this  she  falLa 
a-sobbing  as  though  her  heart  must  break. 

"  Well,  so  you  will,"  says  Miss  Cazalet,  with  a  fine  con- 
tempt; "  not  only  him,  but  her  too.  The  daughter  you 
were  always  wishing  for  in  one  guise  or  another.     I  hope 


THE    DUCHESS.  193 

you  will  like  her  when  yon  get  her.  At  all  events  she  will 
give  you  scope  for  the  superfluous  sentimeut  that  must  be 
such  a  trouble  to  you." 

She  laughs  again  insolently,  and  moves  toward  the  door 
Kancy  Blake,  who  happens  to  be  standing  near  it,  draws 
away  as  she  approaches,  with  an  unconscious  but  very  elo- 
quent display  of  condemnation.  But  of  this  Katherino 
takes  little  heed.  Opening  the  door,  she  steps  out  into 
the  hall  and  there  comes  face  to  face  with — 


CHAPTER  XXVL 

*•  I  find  she  loves  him  much,  because  she  hide«  ft. 
Love  teaches  cunning  even  to  innocence." 

Such  a  poor,  little,  forlorn,  draggled,  frightened  girl, 
that  for  the  moment  she  scarcely  knows  her.  Can  this  bt 
the  dainty  Duchess? 

It  is  I  With  a  quick  exclamation  she  goes  forward,  and 
lays  her  firm  white  hand  upon  the  shrinking  Norah'a 
shoulder,  and  twists  her  round  so  that  the  light  may  fall 
more  fully  upon  her. 

"  So  you  have  come  home!     I  wonder  yon  weren's 

ashamed,"  she  says.     "  And  in  such  a  plight  too!    Where 

Is  your  beauty  gone,  I  wonder?'*     She  seems  to  find  a  rich 

enjoyment  in  the  girl's  miserable  appearance.     ''  Come, 

you  have  now  to  explain,"  she  says,  and  using  a  little  (a 

very  little  is  all  that  is  needed)  of  the  strength  that  be- 

loagi  to  her,  she  comDek  the  woru-out  chilcl  to  lollow  heri 
7 


194  THE    DUCHESS. 

and  enter  what  seems  to  her  sad,  terrified,  half-duUedi 
brain,  a  room  crowded  with  condemnatory  eyes. 

When  she  left  Denis  she  had  been  fortunate  in  taking 
at  first  the  path  that  led  direct  to  Veutry.  At  the  gates 
she  had  met  two  of  the  stablemen,  whom  she  had  at  once 
dispatched  to  the  cabin  where  lay  the  unconscious  De- 
laney.  A  third  man  she  had  sent  off  for  the  doctor;  and 
having,  as  she  felt,  done  now  for  him  all  she  could  do,  the 
strain  at  last  relaxed  and  she  gave  in.  It  seemed  to  her  as 
though  something  had  given  way  within  her  head,  and  she 
lost  thought  for  most  things,  being  only  desirous  of  get- 
ting away  from  every  one,  that  she  might  be  alone,  beyond 
the  view  of  prying  eyes;  able  to  give  herself  up  to  the 
deadly  lethargy  that  is  so  surely  overcoming  her. 

Then  Katherine  had  seized  upon  her  as  she  was  en- 
deavoring, like  some  wounded  thing,  to  creep  upstairs  un- 
seen to  her  own  room,  and  now  she  puts  up  her  hands  as  if 
to  shut  them  all  away  from  her, 

**  Norah!  Norah!"  cries  Lady  Glandore,  rushing  to  her; 
she  is  not  first — madame  is  before  her,  and  has  caught  the 
girl  by  both  her  shoulders,  and  is,  in  her  agitation,  sway- 
ing her  gently  to  and  fro. 

"  Korah,  where  is  Denis?    Where  is  my  son?" 

The  poor  child,  bewildered,  gazes  from  one  to  the  other. 
A  feeling  of  faintness  is  overpowering  her,  mingled  with 
that  terrible  dread  of  what  they  will  say  of  her — of  public 
censure — that  had  tormented  her  all  through  the  past  in- 
terminable night.  Oh,  to  escape— to  get  awt  ;1  She 
looks  round  her  helplessly,  and  makes  a  feebli  «£tort  to 
shake  oft  madame's  detaining  graspw 


THE    DUCHESS.  195 

"  Korah,  speak,"  says  Lady  Glandore  in  a  kind,  con- 
ciliatory toue.     "  Where  have  you  been  since  last  night?** 

"  In  the  woods,"  says  the  Duchess,  trembling,  repeathig 
half  unconsciously  the  words  she  had  drilled  herself  to  say 
ill  the  lonely  hours  spent  beside  the  insensible  body.  He  is 
safe  now.  The  men  must  have  found  him.  She  can  not 
lay  herself  open  to  the  cruel  insinuations  of  Katherine 
Cazalet.  How  if  she  were,  in  her  fury,  to  tell  them  all  of 
that  scene  in  the  garden!    Oh  no,  no. 

"  I  lost  my  way,"  she  stammers,  foolishly,  that  horrible 
pain  in  her  head  beating  with  maddening  force.  "  I  went 
on — on.  I  could  not  come  back;  there  was  rain.  It  was 
very  dark.  I — **  She  breaks  off  this  incoherent  speech, 
trying  in  a  little  piteous  way  to  collect  herself,  and  only 
succeeding  in  repeating  again  the  words  she  had  impressed 
upon  her  tired  brain  in  a  more  lucid  moment.  **  I  lost 
my  way,*'  she  says,  slowly. 

Miss  Cazalet  laughs  out  loud. 

"  Did  Denis  lose  his  way,  too?**  she  asks.  "  It  is  really 
refreshing,  in  such  a  material  age  as  this,  to  hear  of  two 
beings  so  charmingly  unsophisticated.  Two  veritable 
babes  in  the  wood  I" 

"  Be  silent,  girl!*'  cries  Mrs.  0*Shaughnessy,  with 
honest  indignation. 

"  No.  I  shall  not  be  silent.  WhatI  Is  all  her  path, 
however  depraved,  to  be  made  smooth  for  herP*' 

*'  What  path?"  demands  Nancy  Blake,  quickly.  **  Con- 
fess at  least  that  your  first  surmise  was  a  false  one.  There 
has  been  no  elopement.** 

"  I  am  nevertheless  as  firmly  convinced  as  ever^  thai 


19(1  THE   DUCHESS. 

she,  and  she  alone,  knows  why  Denis  »  ahsent  from  hii 
home. " 

At  the  sound  of  Delaney's  name,  Korah  starts  violently. 

**Ha!  do  you  see  that?*' cries  Miss  Cazalet,  triumph- 
antly. "  Deny  now,  if  you  can,  that  she  is  hiding 
something  from  us.  ** 

"  Korah,  dearest,  try  to  explain,"  says  Lady  Glandore, 
going  nearer  to  the  half-fainting  girl  and  passing  her  arm 
round  her. 

"  Yes,  do.  Do,  my  dear!  Sure  a  word  will  settle  it  one 
way  or  the  other,"  says  Mrs.  O'Shaughnessy,  giving  her 
an  encouraging  pat  on  the  back. 

"  Oh,  Duchess!  If  there  is  anything  to  tell,  teti  iti" 
entreats  Miss  Blake,  in  deep  distress,  being  evidently  on 
the  verge  of  tears. 

But  Norah  is  past  understanding  now. 

**  I  lost  my  way,"  she  murmurs,  foolishly.  "  It  was  so 
dark,  so  cold.  I  went  on,  on;  I  lost  my  way."  She  looks 
round  her  with  darkening  eyes  and  an  agonized  expression. 

*'WhyI"  exclaims  Miss  Cazalet,  creeping  slowly  up  to 
her,  with  her  head  bent  and  gaze  fixed  upon  Norah*8 
gown,  "  what  is  this!"  She  lifts  a  corner  of  it.  **  It  is 
hloodi'*  she  cries,  shrilly.  *' Blood!  She  has  murdered 
him.  Look  at  her,  lookl  It  is  blood,  I  tell  you.  She  has 
killed  him." 

**  Don't  be  a  fool!"  says  Mrs.  O'Shaughnessy  with  more 
force  than  elegance.  But  even  as  she  says  it  her  tone 
trembles. 

That  Rwf al  word  has  penetrated  the  mists  that  trouble 
Norab's  intellect;  staggering  to  a  table,  she  leans  against 


THB   DUCHESS.  191* 

ft,  and  tnrns  ber  miserable  03^68  on  madama  All  is  for- 
gotten now,  save  the  memory  of  how  she  left  him;  all  that 
natural  desire  to  shield  herself  if  possible  from  cruel  cen- 
sure is  dead  witliin  bar. 

*'  Send  for  him,"  she  cries,  hoarsely,  holding  out  both 
her  hands.  And  then,  with  sharp  remembrance,  **  Do 
not  blamo  rae!  Forgiyg  me  I  I  could  not  help  it.  I — 
He  would  have  died — ** 

She  is  leaning  rather  heavily  against  the  tpble  now — ^her 
face  is  ghastly.  But  they  are  all  so  puzzled,  so  terrified  by 
ber  extraordinary  speech,  that  they  forget  to  notice  her. 

Then  there  is  a  sound  at  the  door,  a  quick  footstep- 
would  she  not  know  it  among  ten  thousand?  And  the 
squire  enters  the  room.  Oh  I  the  joy  of  this  moment  A 
Bharp  exclamation  breaks  from  her, 

**0h,  dadt  Oh,  dadl"  ahe  cries,  wildly,  and  falls 
Kuaeless  into  his  Armg. 


OHAPTEB  XXVIL 

"ButthoiOQi 
Whence  the  love  comes,  all  ravage  leaves  that  wboJa 
Vainly  the  flesh  fades — soul  makes  all  things  new." 

"  Why,  how  is  this?  Look  up,  my  lamb;  my  preciou* 
Why,  Norahl  Why,  DuchessI*'  The  squire,  as  he  holds 
his  daughter's  insen»ble  body  to  his  heart,  appears  at  his 
wit's  end.  He  is  bending  over  her,  and  is  looking  with 
heart-broken  anxiety  into  the  white,  worn  face.  Then 
suddenly  he  lifts  his  head  and  gazes  sternly  at  madams 
•cross  her  body. 


198  tHB  ouaB38& 

**  What  haye  jon  done  to  herP"  he  uks,  fiercely.  "  1 
lent  her  to  you.  I  trusted  you.  And  yoa —  Is  this  the 
way  you  give  her  back  to  me?**  He  pauses  here  and  looks 
so  indignantly  around  him  that,  aa  Nancy  Blake  afterward 
expressed  it,  they  all  went  into  their  shoes.  *'  Had  none 
of  you  compassion  on  her,  after  all  she  had  jtist  gone 
through?**  This,  of  course,  ig  not  understood  by  any  of 
them,  and  he  turns  back  again  to  madame.  "  Answer 
me,*'  he  says.     "  What  have  you  done  to  my  daughter?** 

Nancy  Blake  and  Lady  Gland  ore  are  doing  what  they 
can  for  Norah,  while  madame  takea  a  step  forward  and 
confronts  her  brother-in-law. 

"  Oh,  mani*'  she  cries,  in  broken  accents,  "  yon  have 
her.  She  is  there  within  your  arms.  But  I —  Where  is 
my  son?*'    There  is  tragedy  in  her  whole  air. 

"  Have  yon  not  heard  then?  Has  she  not  told  you?*' 
exclaims  the  squire,  startled.  "  They  told  me  to  break  it 
to  yon,  but  I  thought  Norah  would  have  been  able  to — 
Why,  they  are  bringing  him  here.  He  has  been  hurt — 
and—" 

'*  He  is  dead!"  says  madame,  in  a  low  bnt  piercing  tone. 

**  Bless  me,  my  dear  creature,  na  Not  a  bit  of  it. 
Far  from  it,  I  hope.  He —  There  now,  Norah  I*'  as  the 
girl  opens  her  eyes.  "Come  now,  there's  a  good  girl  I 
That's  right  now  I  Look  up  at  your  old  dad!  He,"  turn- 
ing again  to  madame,  **  was  attacked,  it  appears,  by  one 
of  those  damned  Land  Leaguers.  I  really  beg  your  par- 
don, my  dear  madame — but — er — anyway  "  (with  an  airy 
gesture)  **  it  was  one  of  those  damned  rascals  who  fired  at 
Ilia,  and  tho  ballet  hit  him,  and  bis  arm —    There,  now, 


THE    DUCHESS.  199 

that's  my  own  girl  again.     Why,  Noddlekins,  to  think  of 
your  fiiiuting  at  the  sight  of  your  old  father." 

*'  Oh,  his  arm.  What  of  his  arm?'*  asks  the  poor 
mother,  distractedly. 

*'  It— I'm  afraid  it's  broken,"  says  the  squire,  gently. 
"  But  hasn't  Norah  told  you?" 

"Norahl  No."  They  all  draw  closer  together, 
*'  What  does  she  know  of  it?" 

*•'  Why,  bless  my  heart,  everything,"  says  the  squire, 
looking  proudly  down  upon  the  Duchess,  who  now,  safe  in 
the  shelter  of  his  embrace,  and  somewhat  fortified  by  the 
wine  that  Lady  Glandore  has  insisted  on  her  drinking,  is 
listening  with  some  composure  to  her  father's  tale. 
"  Why,  it  was  Norah  who  found  him  in  that  ruffian'? 
grasp,  and  somehow  saved  him.  I  don't  quite  know  all 
about  it  myself  yet,  but,  anyhow,  she  must  have  succeeded 
in  dragging  him  into  a  sort  of  hut  that  is  m  the  woods,  and 
there  she  stayed  with  him  all  night,  nursing  him  and  bind- 
ing up  his  wounds,  and — and — covering  him  up  from  the 
cold  with  her  own  poor  little  petticoats.  'Pon  my  soul!" 
says  the  squire,  two  tears  stealing  down  his  cheeks,  *'  she's 
a  heroine,  that's  what  she  is,  though  I  say  it  of  my  own 
flesh  and  blood. " 

*'  Oh,  Korah!  But  why  didn't  you  tell  us,  darling?'*  saya 
madame,  taking  the  girl  in  her  arms  and  kissing  her  some- 
what reproachfully.     "  To  know  he  was  alive — *' 

Here  the  door  is  pushed  open  very  gently,  and  the  but- 
ler thrusts  in  his  hoary  head. 

*'  If  ye  plaze,  madame,  they've  brought  the  masther,*' 
he  begins,  genuine  fear  and  sorrow  in  his  tone. 


200  THE    DUCHESS. 

**  Bring  him  in  here,*'  says  the  squire,  hastily.  "  And 
Bend  another  messenger  for  the  doctor." 

He  is  quite  conscious  as  they  bring  him  in  on  his  im- 
provised couch,  a  door  covered  with  coats,  and  his  first 
word  is  for  the  mother  who  bends  over  him  in  speechless 
grief. 

"  Dear  mother!  It  might  have  been  worse,*'  he  says, 
feebly,  with  a  touching  attempt  at  the  old  lightness  of 
manner;  and  then  his  gaze  wanders.     *'  Norah?"  he  asks. 

"  She  is  here,^*  says  madame,  drawing  her  eagerly  for- 
urard;  and  indeed  no  pressure  is  needed.  She  is  at  his  side 
almost  as  soon  as  her  name  passes  his  lips,  with  love,  un- 
forbjdden,  in  her  eyes.  It  seems  to  her  now  as  though 
nothing  matters,  and  that  for  this  one  supreme  moment  he 
is  still  her  own.  The  influence  of  the  past  night,  when  he 
was  given  so  utterly  into  her  keeping,  is  stiil  strong  upon 
her,  and  regardless  of  all  eyes  (they  are  very  kindly  ones) 
she  kneels  down  beside  him,  and  presses  her  lips  to  his 
hand. 

"  You  are  better,"  she  says,  softly,  joyfully.  The  mor- 
row may  give  him  again  to  Katherine.  The  morrow  may, 
nay  it  shall,  take  her  away  forever,  back  to  her  old  home, 
but  just  now,  noWf  she  will  hold  him  as  her  own. 

*'  Mother!**  says  Denis,  turning  to  madame  with  some 
excitement,  **  she  is  worn  out,  exhausted.  Don*t  you  see 
it?  Take  her  away;  I  give  her  into  your  charge.  See  to 
her  as  you  love  her.     But  for  her,  I — " 

He  ceases  somewhat  suddenly,  and  falls  backward^ 
whereupon  the  doctor,  who  has  providentially  arrived  at 
this  critical  instant,  pucs  them  all  out  of  the  room,  save 


THE   DUCHESS.  201 

madaine  and  the  squire,  who  proves  a  most  efficient  sur- 
gical help. 

Lad  J  Gland  ore  has  carried  off  the  Duchess  and  induced 
her  to  go  to  bed;  and  indeed  it  is  not  until  long  afterward 
that  the  squire  learns  how  very  near  to  brain  fever  his 
little  daughter  had  been.  Thanks,  however,  to  the  unre- 
mitting care  of  Nancy  Blake,  who  devoted  herself  to  her, 
and  to  Lady  Glandore,  who  surprised  even  herself  on  this 
occasion,  the  danger  was  tided  over.  Soothing  judicious 
answers  were  given  to  the  wild,  incoherent  questions — 
spoonfuls  of  beef  tea  were  administered  every  now  and  then 
— a  sleeping  draught  was  procured  from  the  doctor,  and 
thus  the  tired  and  over-excited  brain  was  calmed,  and  finally 
toward  midnight  a  heavy  sleep  falling  on  her,  saved  her. 

But  a  terrible  cold  arises  out  of  those  hours  when  she 
had  sat  in  the  cabin,  only  half-clothed;  and  for  weeks  she 
lies  prostrate,  fondly  tended  night  and  day  by  the  squire, 
whose  very  soul  seems  wrapped  up  in  her,  and  whose  only 
comfort  lies  in  such  moments  as  when  he  can  cradle  her  in 
his  loving  arms,  and  feel  her  head  nestling  close  against  hia 
heart. 

And  there,  too,  she  loves  to  lie,  and  whisper  to  him, 
when  her  cough  permits,  all  sorts  of  things  about  Denis. 
There  is  no  shame,  no  thought  of  hiding  anything  from 
her  dad,  in  her  gentle  breast.  He  is  dad^  and  therefore  he 
will  understand.  She  knows  that  he  will  believe  nothing, 
save  that  every  thought  and  word  and  deed  of  his  little 
Duchess  is  the  very  purest,  and  sweetest  and  best. 

None  but  thcsa  who  have  experienced  it  can  comprehend 
ibo  divine  oomiort  that  lies  in  a  love  like  thisi 


THE    DUCHESS. 


And  then  there  comes  a  day  when  she  is  really  better, 
and  though  but  a  phantom  of  her  former  sprightly  self, 
still  it  is  Norali  who  speaks  to  them,  moving  about  lan- 
guidly enough,  heaven  knows,  but  able  to  talk  without 
having  to  pause  between  every  other  word  for  the  terrible 
paroxysm  of  coughing  to  go  by. 

Her  recover}'^,  after  all,  has  been  slower  than  Delaney's, 
who  has  pulled  through  rapidly,  to  the  admiration  of  hia 
doctor  and  nurse,  and  who,  though  he  has  not  yet  been 
out  of  the  house,  on  account  of  the  inclemency  of  the 
weather  (it  is  now  close  to  Christmas),  has  very  nearly  pass- 
ed the  bonds  of  invalidism.  Yet  though  the  time  has  been 
long  since  he  was  struck  down  by  that  revengeful  hand, 
Norah  and  he  had  never  yet  met  face  to  face.  Indeed, 
Dr.  Morgan  and  the  great  man  from  Dublin  have  been 
rigid  in  their  determination  to  keep  Denis  from  seeing  any 
one  except  his  special  attendants,  but  to-day,  Katherine, 
whose  inquiries  all  through  his  illness  have  been  unceasing 
and  very  touching,  and  who  has  apparently  forgotten  all 
about  that  acceptance  of  Sir  Brandrum,  so  boldly  declared 
on  a  certain  occasion,  has  wrung  a  rather  reluctant  per- 
mission from  madame  to  pay  him  a  visit. 

A  hope  that  he  had  heard  nothing  of  that  unpleasant 
declaration  of  hers  yet  warms  Katherine's  breast.  A  hoi)e 
vain  indeed,  as  Lady  Glandore,  who  loves  a  little  mischief, 
has  been  at  particular  pains  to  make  him  thoroughly  ac- 
quainted with  it.  To  do  her  justice,  she  has  given  a  very 
striking  and  graphic  description  of  that  past  scene  to 
Denis,  having  fought  her  way  into  his  room  to  do  it.  Un- 
jiware  of  this,  and  iiui  ui  *  ueiermination  to  establish  th« 


THE   DUCHESS.  203 

old  relations  between  them — the  Delaney  rent-roll  being 
Tery  considerably  in  advance  of  Sir  Brandrum's — Kuther- 
in©  one  morning  lays  aside  her  work  in  a  rather  ostenta- 
tioas  manner,  and  rising,  declares  aloud,  in  a  rather  pie- 
wedltated  tone,  that  she  is  going  to  see  Denis. 

**  Are  you?  Lucky  mortalT*  says  Lady  Glandore,  quite 
beaming  upon  her.  **  Kow  here  are  all  wo  longing  to  get 
a  glimpse  of  him,  yet  are  denied;  whilst  you — ** 

*'  Well,  you  see,"  says  Miss  Cazalet,  with  what  is  meant 
to  be  a  sentimental  air,  **  I  suppose  they  would  concede  the 
prior  claim  to  me  I" 

**  Oh,  naturally  I  To  he  sum!  How  could  I  have  for 
gotten  that!"  exclaims  Lady  Glandore,  with  so  much  em- 
pressement  that  even  Katherine  regards  her  with  a  little 
suspicion.  As  for  the  others — it  is  a  wet  day,  and  the 
drawing-room  is  full  of  men  and  women — they  all  stare 
at  her  as  if  lost  in  amazement  at  her  d  uplicity. 

"  Why,  I  thought,**  begins  Miss  Blake,  looking  coldly 
at  Katherine,  "  that  on  the  morning  when  we  were  all  so 
upset  by  the  fact  that  Denis  couldn't  be  found,  that  you — ** 

"Tat,  my  good  Nancyl"  whispers  Lady  Glandore, 
catching  her  frock  behind  and  palling  her  down  on  the  ot- 
toman beside  her.  **Fy,  fy,  now  I  One  should  never  i-e- 
member  such  little  mistakes  as  that" 

"  You  are  a  disgraceful  hypocrite,"  says  Nancy,  after  a 
pause,  during  which  she  has  studied  her  friend  with  un- 
isual  severity. 

"  I  am  worth  my  weight  in  gold,"  responds  Lady  Glan- 
dore, unabashed.  "  Wait  till  you  seel  She  is  going  up  to 
Iieais  with  that  elephantine  air  of  sentiment  fixed  on  bei 


204  THE    DUCHESS. 

chiseled  features,  and  when  she  finds  out  what  I  have  done 
(in  about  twenty  minutes  from  now,  I  should  Bay)  there 
will  be  such  another  little  game  as  you  have  never  dreamed 
oi*' 

**  I  wonder  when  we  may  see  the  Duchess,"  says  Mr. 
Oreene  at  this  moment. 

**  Duchess!  AVhat  a  name  that  is!**  said  Miss  Cazalet, 
with  a  curling  lip.  "  Doesn't  it  seem  to  you  that — er — 
there  is  almost  a  touch  of  impropriety  about  itf" 

**  About  where  now?*'  asks  Mr.  Greene,  leaning  for- 
ward as  if  positively  athirst  for  information. 

*'  No,  it  doesn't  seem  like  that  to  any  of  ns,"  says 
Nancy  Blake,  a  sudden  fire  in  her  eyes.  **  I  should  have 
to  be  born  all  over  again — born  a  cleverer  creature—  a  yoii' 
perhaps  —before  I  could  understand  how  to  associate  such 
a  word  as  that  with  our  dear,  brave,  little  Duchess." 

Miss  Cazalet  shrugs  her  shoulders  very  slightly,  very 
gracefully,  very  superciliously,  implying  somehow  by  her 
gesture  that  of  course  it  is  impossible  to  carry  out  an 
argument  with  such  an  unfortunately  mannered  person  as 
Miss  Blake,  and  leaves  the  room. 

"  What  a  way  she  talks  of  Norah,**  says  the  latter,  her 
charming  eyes  still  aflame,  turning  to  Lord  Kilgarriff, 
who,  as  usual,  is  at  her  elbow.  They  are  walking  toward 
the  conservatory. 

**  She  is  abominable,*'  says  Kilgarriff,  warmly. 

"  Who?"  demands  Nancy,  with  pardonable  puzzlement, 
standing  still  beside  a  giant  palm. 

"Why,  Miss  Cazalet,  of  course.  Sarely  you  did  not 
think  I  meant  the  dear  Duchessl" 


THE    DtJCHESS.  205 

"  No."  She  seems  rather  taken  np  by  the  shape  of  the 
palm  leaf  nearest  her  for  a  moment  or  two,  and  then  says 
Blowly: 

**  Foil  would  take  Norah's  part,  of  course?" 

"  Well,  why  shouldn't  I?  She  is  one  of  the  oldegi 
friends  I  have." 

"More  than  that,"  thoughtfully,  resting  a  piercing 
glance  on  him.     "  You  don't  forget,  do  you?** 

"  Forget  what?" 

**  All  you  told  me  when  we  were  abroad  last  summer." 

** About  Norah?"  desperately.  "No,  why  should  1 
forget?  It  is  all  over  now,  and  no  harm  done  to  her  or  to 
me." 

"  Are  you  so  sure  of  that — the  last,  I  meanP" 

"  You  ought  to  be  a  very  good  judge.  Toa  who  know 
how  I—" 

"  Pouf,  youVe  said  all  that  so  often,  but — about  Norah, 
now — "  edging  round  the  palm,  and  glancing  at  him  every 
now  and  then  through  the  parted  leaves.  "  You  onco 
asked  her  to  marry  you,  didn't  you?  And,**  provokingly, 
"  she  wouldn't  have  you,  eh?*' 

"  Well,  I  couldn't  help  that,"  defiantly.  **  That  wasn't 
my  fault,  though  you  may  despise  me  for  it.  And,  as  1 
said  before,  it  is  all  over  now,  and,"  taking  a  turn  round 
the  palm,  with  an  agility  that  brings  him  very  close  to 
Miss  Blaks,  before  she  can  manage  a  second  escape — "  the 
real  question  is  what  you  think  of  it  all  I"  He  has  im- 
prisoned her  hands,  and  is  looking  into  her  face  with  saffi* 
cient  anxiety  to  satisfy  most  women. 

*'  1  atujok  she  was  a  looll"  says  Miss  Blake,  with  d»nQ« 


206  THE    DUCHESS. 

Sng  simplicity,  and  the  very  coyest;  little  glance  in  Uk 
world. 
That  settles  iti 

CHAPTER  XXVm. 

••  Bat  certain  points,  left  wholly  to  himself 
When  once  a  man  has  arbitrated  on, 
We  say  we  must  succeed  there,  or  go  hang: 
Thus,  he  should  wed  the  woman  he  lOves  most, 
Or  needs  most — " 

So  tender,  so  careful  is  Miss  Cazalet's  footstep,  that 
almost  one  might  believe  she  walks  on  tiptoe,  as  she  enters 
Delaney's  room. 

*'  Dear  Denis,  I  am  so  grieved  to  see  yon  still  so  en- 
feebled," she  says,  bending  over  him,  with  as  much  lover« 
like  ardor  as  she  can  manage.  "  I  have  so  longed  to  come 
to  you,  to  minister  to  you.  But — "  She  makes  a  dramatic 
pause. 

"  Well,  KatheriueP'*  asks  he,  in  a  most  uncomfortably 
matter-of-fact  tone. 

"So  many  things  were  to  be  considered — so  many 
things  had  happened." 

**  True,*'  says  he,  determined  to  treat  the  interview  as  a 
purely  friendly  one,  if  possible.  **  There  was  the  arrest  of 
the  man  Moloney,  for  example,  who,  it  appears,  has  con- 
fessed himself  the  mnrderer  of  poor  Meredith — a  thing  I 
suspected  all  along." 

**  Ah!  you  are  so  clever  1"  interposes  she,  sweetly. 

**  Father  Doolin,  I  suppose  you  heard,  wrote  to  me 
about  it    Good  man  (he  is  that!),  though  shocked  a4  tlM 


IHE    DUCHESS.  20'» 

fliscovery  of  that  black  sheep  in  his  fold,  he  was,  I  believe 
at  heart  glad  at  the  very  thought  that  on  his  arrest  I 
would  redeem  my  promise  and  show  meroy  to  the  rest  of 
tlie  flock." 

"  But  you  disappointed  him?*'  says  she,  smiling  bland- 
ly. "  I  know  the  stern  justice  that  distinguishes  you. 
You  were  not  taken  in  by  his  Jesuitical  letter;  you  felt  that 
those  ill-coaditioued  tenants  should  be  taught  a  lesson 
that—" 

"  Ko,  I  didn't,"  says  he,  calmly.  "  I  consider  that 
their  punishment  has  gone  deep  enough;  and,  of  course,  I 
kept  to  my  word.  I  remitted  all  past  rents,  and  gave 
further  reductions  to  most,  and  now  all  is  peace  and  har- 
mony between  me  and  my  tenants,  so  long  as  it  lasts." 

*'  Tills  new  bill,"  begins  she,  to  carry  oil  a  certain  feel- 
ing of  defeat  that  is  hot  within  her. 

**  The  breakage  of  leases,  you  mean.  Well,  it  won't 
rnin  me.  I  thank  my  stars  I  have  better  irons  in  the  fire 
than  Irish  acres.  But  indeed  we  do  seem  to  have  come  to 
that  socialistic  pitch  in  this  greenest  of  green  isles  when  no 
man  may  dare  to  call  his  soul  his  own,  lest  he  be  required 
to  divide  it  with  his  neighbor." 

"  True,  true,"  says  Miss  Cazalet,  hastily.  It  was  hard- 
ly to  h'sten  to  uninteresting  speeches  of  this  sort  that  she 
had  made  her  way  to  his  room.  **  But  pray  do  not  let 
your  mind  wander  to  such  disturbing  topics.  I  am  sure," 
sentimentally,  '*  it  must  oe  so  very  bad  for  you;  and  as  I 
am  here,  installed  as  head  nurse  for  the  moment,  as  it 
were,"  with  baly  playfulness,  **I  must  insist  on  my 
patient  being  very  careful,  lest  I  should  loso  the  predoca 


208  IHB  rrcHESs. 

chance  of  visiting  him  ag^in.  Dear  Denis,  yoa  can  not 
conceive  bow  I  have  pined  to  come  to  you.  I  felt  hoir  yoa 
must  be  missing  me,  but  they  said  it  would  be  imprudent, 
my  coming,  above  all  others  *' — this  is  a  bold  stroke — '*  so 
Bure  to  excite  you,  and — and  I  would  not,  of  course,  even 
v^iah  anything  where  your  valued  health  was  concerned." 
•  This  awful  speech,  so  labored,  so  plainly  prearranged, 
draws  a  sound  that  is  suspiciously  like  a  groan  from  the 
luckless  Denis.  He  turns  his  head  suddenly,  and  fixes  his 
eyes  on  hers  with  an  expression  in  them  that  startles  her. 

*'  I  was  right,  was  I  not,  dearest?'*  she  goes  on  rather 
uncertainly,  puzzled  by  that  new  expression.  *'  I  did  long 
to  be  with  you;  but — but  no  doubt  you  have  heard — ** 

**  Yes,  I  have  heard  a  good  deal,**  interrupts  he,  calm- 
ly; "  of  your  engagement  to  Sir  Brandrnm,  for  instance, 
among  other  thingsl" 

For  once  her  savoir  faire  entirely  forsakes  her. 

**  Who  told  you?*'  she  exclaims,  as  artlessly  as  might « 
maiden  of  fifteen,  and  then,  collecting  herself  with  a  very 
admirable  audacity,  attempts  to  give  a  satisfactory  ending 
to  her  deplorable  beginning.  "  Ah  I  that  was  the  work  of 
a  moment,  of  one  miserable  moment;  when — ^I  confess  it 
all  to  you,  Denis,  with  deepest  remorse — I  had  actually 
dared  to  doubt  your  —  your  honor,"  (Immense  telling 
stress  on  the  last  word.)  "  But,  come  now,**  shaking  off 
the  penitent  mood,  and  making  a  heavy  attempt  at  arch- 
ness, "  confess  in  your  turn.  Say,  at  least,  that  I  had 
some  cause  for  my  foolish  jealousy.  Though  " — magnani- 
mously— **  of  course,  that  absurd  little  affair  is  of  no  mo« 
meat  really,  and  you  must  know,  yoa  must  think,  that—** 


THE    DUCHESS.  209 

*  What  I  think  and  Know  is  tudt  you  will  keep  to  your 
last  engagement,"  says  Delaney,  immovably, 

"  Ah!  you  are  angry  with  me!'*  exclaims  she,  plaint* 
ively,  clasping  her  hands  in  the  most  approved  fashion. 
At  this  instant  the  solid  coin  of  The  Delaney  seems  to  her 
incomparably  more  to  be  desired  than  the  comparatively 
empty  coffers  that  accompany  the  title  of  Sir  Brandrum. 

"  One  word,  Kathleen,*'  says  Delaney,  grimly.  (It  is 
to  be  now  or  never,  he  tells  himself.)  **Yon,  of  your 
own  accord,  smashed  the  extremely  heavy  chain  that 
bound  us,  and  I  think  it  better  to  let  you  understand  once 
for  all  that  I  decline  to  forge  it  agam.*' 

**  You  mean — ?"  says  she,  choking  with  suppressed 
rage,  indignation,  and  supreme  disappointment. 

*'  Exactly  what  I  have  said.** 

"  A  little  more,  I  think,*"'  vindictively.  "  You  mean 
to  marry  that  girl,  that  ad — " 

**  Kot  a  word  about  Korah!*'  interposes  he,  with  a 
frown  so  stern  that  it  checks  her.  "  Of  yourself,**  re- 
covering himself,  and  smiling  lightly,  *'  as  much  as  you 
will.  When,'*  with  a  direct  glance,  "  do  you  marry  Sir 
Brandrum?** 

*'  Next  month*  in  all  probabilify,"  with  a  defiant  curl  of 
the  lip. 

"  So  soon?" 

"  To  forget  yon,  you  would  say?*'  with  a  bitter  laugh. 
**  But  believe  me,  my  dear  cousin,  it  will  be  an  easier  task 
than  perhaps  you  imagine.  Oh,  yes,  I  accept  the  inevita- 
Dle,"  with  a  shrug.  **  1  shall  not  pose  even  in  private  at 
a  lovelorn  damself 


210  THE    DUCHES& 

**  M}  efear  girl  I  Tohaveerea  a  doabt  on  thoBubject 
woald  be  indeed  not  to  know  you.  I  quite  understand 
that  all  through  our — our  knowledge  of  each  other — I  was 
regarded  by  you— and  very  properly  too — as  one  distinctly 
beneath  your  level.  I  honestly  believe,**  pleasantly, 
"  that  you  regard  this  torn  of  the  affair  as  a  happy  re^ 
lease  from — " 

"  Well,  I  wish  you  joy  of  Norah,  at  all  events,"  says 
she,  interrupting  him  with  a  brasqueness  foreign  to  her. 
She  has  risen,  and  is  looking  down  at  him,  a  distinctly 
venomous  gleam  in  her  pale  eyes. 

*'  That's  so  like  youl  Thanks  very  muchi"  returns 
he,  graciousness  itself.  '^  One  naturally  likes  to  be  con- 
gratulated on  occasions  such  as  this.  It  is  very  good  of 
you,  but  of  course  old  friends,  cousins,  as  we  are,  it  is 
only  what  I  might  have — ** 

The  door  slamming  with  rather  undue  haste  terminates 
the  sentence. 

"  I  thank  my  stars  that's  overl"  says  Delaney,  with  a 
heart-felt  sigh. 

He  goes  back  to  his  reading,  but  somehow  the  flavo'-  has 
gone  out  of  it.  A  sense  of  discontent,  of  impatience, 
seizes  hold  of  him,  and  troubles  him  to  such  an  extent 
that  finally  he  flings  away  his  paper  and  gives  way  to  the 
one  til  ught  that  for  days  has  been  tormenting  him.  If 
Katherine — if  the  others — are  permitted  to  see  him,  why 
may  not  Xorah  come,  so  that  he  may  see  ^r?  Ob,  the 
tender  joy  of  that  thought!  To  see  her  face  to  face,  to 
look  again  into  her  eyes,  with  no  hateful  barrier  to  check 


THE    DUCHESS.  211 

the  love-light  in  his  own.  She  is  so  very  mnch  better,  so 
nearly  strong  again,  that  it  seems  to  him  she  might  be 
trusted  to  visit  him  for  a  fevr  short  minutes — half  an  hour 
or  so.  It  is  altogether  absurd  the  way  in  which  these  doc- 
tors are  domineering  over  him,  forbidding  him  to  move  ex- 
cept at  stipulated  moments,  or  else  he  would  go  and  find 
her,  were  she  ever  so  Jealously  guarded.  But  as  it  is,  and 
as  madanie  has  told  him  only  this  morning  that  she  is  so 
far  herself  again  that  she  is  to  go  down-stairs  to-morrow, 
surely,  surely,  of  her  grace  she  will  come  to  him  if  he  peti- 
tion her.  Not  to-day,  perhaps — not  even  to-morrow — but— 

To  ring  a  bell,  to  bring  the  devoted  mother  to  his  side, 
to  explain  to  her  his  hopes  and  longings,  to  gain  her  e*«r 
to  his  views,  is  but  the  work  of  a  few  minutes. 

"  She  is  not  very  strong  yet,  darling;  you  must  remwm 
ber  that.  I  am  afraid  you  will  be  a  little  troubled  by  iho 
change  in  her.  And  if  she  comes,  Denis,  you  must  be 
very,  very  careful  not  to  unnerve  her  in  any  way,  because 
she  is  still — well — rather  unstrung,  you  know,  since  that 
awful  night." 

"  I  know.  Perhaps,  after  all,  mother,  it  would  be  bet- 
ter for  her  not  to  come.  I  can  wait.  In  a  few  days,  at  all 
events,  1  shall  be  able  to  go  to  her,  and — " 

"  I  don't  think  I  am  afraid  of  her  meeting  yon,  only  I 
would  have  you  be  careful!  Indeed,  I  was  talking  to  Dr. 
Morgan  yesterday,  and  he  agreed  with  me  that  if  she  were 
to  see  you  it  might  have  the  effect  of  allaying  this  danger- 
ous nervousness  that  is  retarding  her  recovery.  So,  if  yoq 
think,  dearest,  that  she  might  come  now.  it  woold  be  worth 
while,  I  think,  to  try  the  experime&t.'* 


212  THE    DUCHBSS. 

**  Ncw^.  now?  This  momenti  Oh!  mother!  do  yen 
really  mean  that?'  * 

"  Certainly  not,**  severely.  **  If  yon  are  going  to  wor| 
yourself  into  a  fever  over  it." 

'*  NoQsensel  I*m  as  cool  as  a  cacnmber!  The  only 
thing  that  could  bring  on  a  fever  now  would  be  your  going 
back  of  your  blessed  suggestion;  so  hurry,  if  you  love  me^ 
and  give  Norah  this  message  from  me :  *  That  I  shall  never 
be  a  bit  better  than  I  am  now  until  I  look  upon  her  face 
again.  *  " 

It  is  a  message  that  touches  the  Duchess.  Perhaps  she 
had  been  secretly  longing  for  some  such  token,  because 
when  she  gets  it  she  rises  up  out  of  the  deep  lounging-chair 
in  which  her  little  fragile  form  is  almost  hidden,  and  with  a 
silent  embrace  bestowed  upon  the  gentle  madame,  she  slips 
her  arm  into  hers,  and  goes  with  her  down  the  long  south- 
ern corridor  and  past  the  gallery  into  the  western  wing 
where  Denis  perforce  dwells. 

Here  madame,  stopping  at  the  door  of  his  sitting-room, 
presses  the  girl's  arm  fondly  and  walks  deliberately  away. 
They  must  settle  matters  in  their  own  fashion,  without  her 
or  any  one*s  interference. 

And  Norah,  opening  the  door  of  her  consin's  room  with 
a  trembling  hand,  walks  slowly  in.  In  the  heavy,  close- 
fitting  gown  of  white  serge  she  wears,  and  with  her  pale 
little  face  spiritualized  by  illness,  she  seems  almost  an 
angel  visitor,  as  she  stands  just  inside  the  door,  oncertain, 
motionless,  hardly  krcwing  what  to  do. 


tax   DUCHESS.  SIS 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

*'Oh,  what  a  dawn  of  day! 
Bow  the  !March  Bun  feels  like  May! 
All  is  blue  again 
After  last  night's  rain." 

"  Flower  o'  the  broom. 

Take  away  love  and  our  earth  is  a  tomb.** 
•  ••••• 

**  Ah,  at  last!  At  such  a  long  last  I*'  cries  Denis,  hold« 
ing  oat  to  her  his  hand — the  left  one;  the  other  is  still 
bound  up,  but  one  can  see  that  it  has  made  great  strides 
toward  recovery.  He  makes  an  effort  to  rise,  as  if  to  go  to 
her,  but  with  a  little  exclamation  Norah  checks  him.  A 
Boft  flush  springs  into  her  cheeks,  but  as  it  dies  away  again, 
and  as  she  draws  nearer  to  the  couch  on  which  he  is  lying, 
he  can  see,  by  the  fuller  light  that  now  shines  on  her,  the 
sad  ravages  that  illness  and  nervous  depression  have  made 
on  her  charming  face. 

She  looks  so  fragile,  so  pale,  Bnch  a  little  thing,  that  al- 
most it  seems  to  him  as  if  an  idle  breath  of  wind  mighS 
blow  her  away  forever.  But  her  smile  is  brilliant  as  she 
turns  it  on  him,  and  the  eyes  are  the  same  as  of  old,  so 
sweet,  so  tender,  so  loving. 

**  You  are  looking  very  ill  still,"  she  says,  gently,  gaz- 
ing gravely  down  at  him.  **  Yet  they  told  me  yoa  were 
almost  well." 

"  T^y  told  yon  the  bare  trath.    So  I  am.    Better  thao 


214  THB   DUCHESS. 

yoa  are,  my  darling,  I  fear.  But  time  will  work  wonders 
for  us  both.  As  for  me,  I  should  be  quite  well  by  this  had 
you  been  able  to  come  to  me.  Well,  never  mind,  I  have 
yoa  now,  at  all  events.    Come  here  and  sit  beside  me.** 

He  moves  inward  on  his  couch,  making  room  there  where 
the  may  sit,  so  that  his  good  arm  may  comfortably  go 
round  her  slender  — alas!  now  how  terribly  slender — form. 
She  takes  no  notice  of  this  friendly  arrangement,  however, 
but  drawing  up  a  chair  to  a  discreet  distance  from  the 
couch,  seats  herself  thereon. 

**  Not  there  1  Why,  I  can  scarcely  see  yoa  there  l"  ex- 
claims he,  in  an  aggrieved  tone.  "  And  besides,  that  chair 
— why,  it  is  the  only  uncomfortable  one  in  the  room.'* 

"  It  will  do;  it  is  very  nice  indeed,  thank  you,**  replies 
she,  hurriedly. 

"  For  you,  yes.  But  for  me?  Korah,  don't  let  me 
learn  for  the  first  time  that  you  are  by  nature  selfish.  I 
tell  you  I  can't  exist  if  you  stay  over  there.  I  shall  have 
to  get  up  and  bring  you  over  here,  and  any  exertion  in  my 
present  state,  as  you  may  have  heard,  would  be  fatal.  The 
doctors  have  made  a  very  special  point  of  this.  Well," 
rising  on  his  elbow  preparatory  to  standing,  **  of  course,  if 
you  won't  come,  I—" 

**  No,  no  —  don't  stir,"  says  the  Duchess,  nervously, 
who,  though  only  half  believing  him,  is  still  a  little 
frightened.  She  gets  up  from  the  discreet  chair  and  seats 
herself  this  second  time  where  he  would  have  her  be. 
He  lifts  one  of  her  little  hands,  now  no  longer  brown  aa 
autumn  berries,  but  white  as  a  fiake  of  snow,  and  would 
have  pressed  it  to  his  lips.  She  shrinks  from  him. 


THE   DUCHESS.  213 

"  Oh,  have  you  f orgotter*? "  she  says,  reproachfully,  tears 
rising  to  her  lovely  eyes. 

"  Indeed  no.  Nothing.  I  shall  never  forget  anything 
connected  with  you." 

"  Never  mind  me.     There — there  is  still  Katherino.'* 

**  So  there  is,  andloug  may  she  wave;  but  she  will  never 
have  anything  to  do  with  you  or  me,  my  sweet.  Why, 
have  you  heard  nothing,  then?  Has  the  mater,  that  most 
womanly  of  all  women,  actually  kept  a  secret?  You  really 
don't  know,  then?** 

"Know  what?"  faintly. 

**  Of  Katherine*s  new  matrimonial  scheme.  Why,  she 
has  thrown  me  over  ** — with  a  happy  laugh — "  and  i.  now 
engaged  to  Sir  Brandrum  Boileau.  She  is  to  be  married  to 
him,  I  hear,  next  month." 

The  lips  of  the  Duchess  grow  a  little  white. 

**  Oh,  is  it  true?"  she  cries,  clasping  her  hands.  There 
is  honest  hope  in  her  eager  voice.     Her  eyes  dilate. 

**  As  true  as  that  you  and  I  are  here  together  now  and 
shall  be  together  for  the  rest  of  our  lives,*'  says  he,  gently. 

"  Oh,  then  I  may  indeed  love  yon  now,**  cries  she,  so  in- 
nocently, with  such  a  sweet  glad  tremor  in  her  tone,  that 
all  his  heart  goes  out  to  her. 

**  If  you  only  will,  my  beloved,*'  he  answers,  softly,  with 
endued  but  earnest  passion.  He  draws  her  closer  to  him, 
and  as  if  a  little  tired  she  yields  to  his  embrace  and  lays 
her  head  upon  the  silken  cnshlon  where  his  head  lies,  her 
little  pale  cheeks  resting  contentedly  against  his. 

"  Are  you  happy?"  asks  he  presently,  in  a  low  whisper. 

'*  Happy!"  scomfolly.    "  Ko»  that  does  not  explain  it. 


816  THE    DUCHESS. 

There  is  no  word  in  any  language  that  can  tell  yoa  how  I 
feel.'*     There  is  the  sweetest  abandonment  in  her  manner. 

"  My  darling!"  Then  he  laughs  a  little  out  ofthe  full- 
ness of  his  heart,  and  presses  her  closer  to  him.  '*  I  do 
think  you  are  the  most  satisfactory  little  sweetheart  in  the 
world,"  he  says,  with  a  touch  of  reverence  in  his  tone, 
born  of  the  innocence  that  marks  each  word  and  action  of 
her.  **  But,"  regarding  intently  her  little,  wan  face, 
*'  how  thin  you  are,  my  lovel  I  don't  like  to  see  you  look 
like  this.  It  makes  me  feel  as  though  I  had  killed  you. 
By  the  by,  Korah,*'  impulsively,  as  though  the  thought  had 
just  returned  to  him,  "do  you  ever  think  of  that  night 
when  you  saved  my  life?*' 

The  moment  the  words  are  uttered  he  regrets  them— 
but  too  late.  She  starts  hurriedly  into  a  more  upright 
position,  and  her  white  face  grows  almost  ghastly. 

"  DonHP'  she  says,  laying  her  hand  upon  his  chest,  as 

though  to  keep  him  from  her.     **  Don't  speak  of  that.     I 

can't  bear  it.     It  hurts  me  here,**  catching  the  bosom  of 

her  gown  in  a  convulsive  grasp.      Rising  abruptly,  she 

moves  away  a  little,  and  her  eyes  grow  strangely  bright. 

**  Kever  mind,  darling.  Don*t  think  of  it,*'  says  De- 
laney,  in  a  low,  quick  tone;  something  in  her  whole  air 
has  frightened  him. 

"  Oh!  that  I  couldnH  thinki"  cries  she.  **  But  it  is  al- 
ivays  there.  Always!  It  stands  out  before  me  just  as  it 
hapj)ened.  I  see — I  hear — everything.  The  ring  of  the 
bullet — the  man's  grasp  upon  your  throat — that  murder- 
ous weapon  uplifted — the  blood  trickling  down  your  faoCj 
and  tiie  rain — the  rain  falling  ceaselessly — " 


THE    DUCHESS.  217 

She  stops  short;  a  strong  shudder  runs  through  her  frail 
frame,  and  lier  breath  conaes  in  little  gasps  from  between 
her  parted  lips. 

"  And  then  that  long  awful  night.  When  there — living 
through  it— it  seemed  nothing,  but  now  I  wonder  how  it 
was  I  lived.*' 

*'  Norah!    Come  here/**  says  Delaney,  authorijative^y. 

*'  No.  Let  mo  speak.  All  this  time  1  i.afo  feh  tnab  I 
must  give  voice  to  my  past  misery,  bat  there  was  no  one 
to  whom  I  could  unburden  my  mind." 

*'  Was  thero  not  my  mother?*'^ 

"  I  tried,  but  I  could  not.  Thero  was  no}y'r3.j  bat  you, 
1  suppose/*  says  she,  with  a  mournful  eimplicfcy.  *'  Bnic 
what  troubles  me  is  this,^'  cries  she,-  turnii:^  her  large, 
soft  eyes  wildly  on  him,  "  why  I  must  speak  at  ail;  why  5.1; 
is  not  permitted  to  me  to  forget.  Oh!  the  cruel  agony  of 
remembrance.  Those  moments  when  I  thought  you  c'ead; 
when  I  half  feared  to  lean  over  you,  lest  I  should  find  your 
breath  was  indeed  gone — that  you  were  gone— forever; 
they  remain  with  me,  I  can  not  drive  them  from  me. 
They  do  not  come  all  together,  those  moments,  but  one  by 
one,  dragging  my  very  heart  from  my  breast.  At  night,*' 
panting,  *'  I  lie  awake  and  go  over  it  a!.,  bit  by  b't,  list« 
ening  to  your  labored  sighs,  waiting  for  your  last  breath, 
until  I  sometimes  think  it  will  .^w  me.*' 

She  is  trembling  convulsively  h  every  limb,  and  her 
eyes,  large  and  brilliant,  are  filled  with  a  strange  fire. 
Delaney,  who  has  by  the  aid  of  his  stick  brought  liimself 
to  a  standing  position,  now  goes  over  to  her,  and  placing 
bis  good  arm  round  her,  draws  her  back  with  him  to.whero 


S18  TBB  orcHsaf 

he  had  been  sitting.  Still  quivering,  and  totally  nnnervod, 
she  obeys  his  unspoken  request,  and  sinking  upon  the 
coach  beside  him,  makes  a  Tiolent  effort  to  controlo  her- 
self. 

**  I  know,"  she  says,  in  a  TCMce  of  deepest  contrition — 
**  I  know  I  should  not  agitate  yoo.  I  should  be  calm  for 
your  sake;  but — " 

"  Just  so,"  says  he,  gravely,  **  I  am  naturally  the  one 
person  to  be  considered.  If  you  agitate  me  any  more  I 
"won't  answer  for  the  consequences." 

*'  Then  do  not  talk  to  me  of  that,**  says  she,  with  a 
little  plaintive  sob. 

*'  Certainly  not.  We  shall  talk  of  something  altogether 
different, "  says  he,  quietly  fixing  an  observant  eye  on  her. 
"  There  are  many  other  subjects,  are  there  not?  You 
can  tell  me,  for  example,  of  the  world  outside.  It  seems 
quite  an  age  since  I  saw  it,  except  from  the  window,  which 
is  but  a  poor  way  of  doing  things." 

"  You  forget  I  have  not  been  out  much  either.  This 
troublesome  cough  has  kept  me  prisoner.  But  yesterday, 
and  one  day  last  week,  dad  took  me  for  a  little  stroll,  just 
we  two,  you  know,  round  the  inner  garden." 

*'  Ah!  But  even  so,  you  are  better  off  than  I  am. 
However,  a  secret  for  you!  I  am  to  go  out  to-morrowpand 
next  week  I  am  to  be  shifted  off  to  the  south  of  France, 
simply,  I  firmly  believe,  to  satisfy  the  mother,  who  still 
thinks  me  at  the  point  of  death;  and  because  the  doctor 
must  order  me  something.  By  the  bye.  Duchess,"  smil- 
ing, while  still  regarding  her  keenly,  **  will  you  come 
there  with  meP" 


THE    DUCHESS.  Sl'J 

*'  Oh,  how  can  I?  i  am  afraid  dad  would  never  go  so 
far  as  that. '' 

"  Let  us  leave  him  at  home,  then,  and  the  mother  too. 
I  have  reasons  for  knowing  that  she  would  positively  hate 
going  abroad  at  this  time  of  year.  What  I  mean  is,  will 
you  marry  me  in  a  hurry,  darling,  and  come  with  me  to 
that  nice  soft  climate  (which  they  say  is  sure  to  set  us  both 
up  again  in  no  time)  and  help  to  nurse  me?" 

He  is  growing  rather  anxious,  now.  Will  she  consent? 
As  for  the  nursing,  it  seems  to  him  that  it  is  he  who  will 
have  to  do  most  of  that.     But  will  she  consent?'* 

"  To  nurse  you;  to  be  always  with  you,"  says  she,  in  a 
soft,  low,  dreamy  voice.  "  Oh,  Denis!  do  you  think  dad 
will  let  me?''  A  quick,  sweet  flush  has  risen  to  her  cheeks; 
there  is  a  wealth  of  loving  joy  in  her  eyes. 

*'He  shall,  if  only  you  consent.  You  will  come  with 
me,  then?"  bending  toward  her,  a  world  of  delighted 
surprise  in  his  glance. 

"  Come?"  reproachfully.  "  Why?  Did  you  think  I 
wouldn't,  then?  There  is,  however,  one  other  thing 
more,"  says  she,  presently,  a  little  troubled  frown  on  her 
brow.  *'  When  people  get  married,  you  know — they  also 
get  trousseaus,  and — in  a  iceeh — '^ 

**Is  that  all?  Tut!"  cries  he,  with  a  happy  laugh, 
drawing  her  head  down  upon  his  breast.  **  Let  them  send 
our  trousseaus  after  us — ^it  will  give  them  something  to 
da" 


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12- 


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46 — Repented  at  Leisure.  By  Char- 
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49— Comin''  Thro'  the  Rye.    By  Helen 

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Alexandre  Dumas. 

6l_We  Two.    By  Edna  LyaU. 

62— Mary  Anerley.  By  R.  D.  Black- 
more. 

6a— The  Admiral's  Ward.  By  Mrs. 
Alexander. 

64— The  Deemster.    By  Hall  Caine. 

65 — Ten  Years  Later.    By  Alexandre 

Dumas. 
66— A  Princess  of  Thule.    By  Wilham 

Black. 
67— Her  Only  Brother.    By  W.  Heim- 

burg. 
68— The  Tents  of  Shem.     By  Grant 

Allen. 
69— Two  on  a  Tower.      By  Thomas 

Hardy. 
70— An  Egyptian  Princess.  By  George 

Ebers. 
71— Mrs.  Geoffrey.  By  "  The  Duchess. 

72— A  Hardy  Norseman.  By  Edna 
LyaU. 

73 — Louise  de  la  ValliSre.  By  Alexan- 
dre Dumas. 

74— The  Weaker  Vessel.  By  David 
Christie  Murray. 

75 — Very  Hard  Cash.  By  Charles 
Reade. 


76— Hypatia. 


By  Charles  Kingsley. 
By  Mrs.  Alex- 


77— The  Wooing  O't. 
auder. 

78— The  Moonstone.  By  Wilkie  Col- 
lins. 

79— Cliildren  of  Gibeou.  By  Walter 
Besant. 

80— Vendetta,  or  The  Story  of  One 
Forgotten.    By  JIarie  Corelli. 

81 — Alice  Lorraine.  By  R.  D.  Black- 
more. 

82— Harry  Lorrequer.  By  Charles 
Lever. 

83— My  Shipmate  Louise.  By  W. 
Clark  Russell. 

84— The  Man  in  the  Iron  Mask.  By 
Alexandre  Dumas. 

85— Won  by  Waiting.    By  Edna  Lyall. 

86— Tricotrin.    By  "  Ouida." 
87 — Dolores.    Bj'  Mrs.  Forrester. 

88— Kit  and  Kittj'.  ByR.  D.  Black- 
more. 

89— Robert  Ord's  Atonement.  By 
Rosa  N.  Carev. 

90— Shirley.    By  Charlotte  Bronte, 

91— A   Bachelor's   Blunder.     By  W. 

E.  Norris. 
92 — Thorns  and  Orange  Blossoms.  By 

Charlotte  M.  Braeme. 
93— In  the   Golden  Days.     By  Edna 

LyaU. 
94~The  Squire's  Legacy.     By  Mary 

Cecil  Hay. 
95— No  Name.    By  Wilkie  CoUins. 


By  Miss  M.  E.  Brad- 
By  Rosa  N. 


96— Mohawks 

don. 
97 — Nellie's  Memories. 

Carey. 
98— The  Emperor.    By  George  Ebers, 

99- 


-Dick's    Sweetheart.      By    "The 
Duchess." 
100— Cradock  NoweU.  By  R.  D.  Black- 
more. 


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THE  MANHATTAN  LIBRARY. 

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Each  Nutuher  Cottiplete  in  One  Volume. 

Price  25  cents  per  copy. 

The  numbers  in  this  series  will  be  pubhslied  weekly,  well  printetl  on  good  paper, 
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By 


101— Micah  Clarke.  By  A.  Conan  Doyle. 

10-'~(;ood  Luck.    By  E.  Werner. 

lUJ-Love  Jle  Little,  Love  Me  Long. 

Hy  t'harles  Reade. 
I(.i4— Strathuiore.    By  "Ouida." 

105  -In  the  Counselor's  House.  By  E. 
Marlitt. 

100— Wooed  and  Married.  By  Rosa  N. 
Carey. 

(07— Cherry  Ripe.  By  Helen  B.  Math- 
ers. 

108— The  Shadow  of  a  Crime.  By  Hall 
Caine. 

109— The  Woodlanders.  By  Thomas 
Haniy. 

110— Queenie"s  Wliim.  By  Rosa  N. 
Carey. 

Ill— 3Iatriniony.    By  W.  E.  Xorris. 

113— The  Sin  of  Joost  AveUngh.    By 

Maarteu  .^laartens. 
113— Fair  Women.    By  Mrs.  Forrester. 

114-  White  Wings.    By  Wm.  Black. 

115— Armorel  of  Lyonesse.  By  Walter 
Besatit. 

116— Pere  Cforiot.  By  Honore  De 
Balzac. 

117— The  E.vecutor.  By  Mrs.  Alex- 
ander. 

118— The  Arundel  Motto.  By  Mary 
Cecil  Hay. 

119— Othmar.     By  "Ouida." 


120— Chandos. 


By  '*  Ouida." 

By   R.  D. 


121— Cripps   the   Carrier. 

Blackmore. 
123— June.    By  Mrs.  Forrester. 

12:J— Wee  Wifle.    By  Rosa  N.  Carey. 

124— The  Twin  Lieutenants.  By  Alex- 
andre Dumas.- 

125- Good-Bye,  Sweetheart.  ByRhoda 
Broufrhton. 


126— St.  Katherinos  By  the  Tower. 

Walter  Besant. 
127— Cloister   and    the  Hearth.        By 

Charles  Reade. 
128— The  Countess  Gisela.    By  E.  Mar- 

htt. 
129— The  Duchess.  By  "The  Duchess." 

130— Cousin   Pons.       By   Honore   De 

Balzac. 
131— In   Far   Lochaber.^  By  William 

Black. 
133— A   Broken    Wedding   Ring.      By 

Charlotte  M.  Braenie. 
133— The  Page  of  tlie  Duke  of  Savoy. 

By  Alexandre  Dumas. 
1.34— The  Captain  of  the  Pole-Star.   By 

A.  Conan  Doyle. 
135— Heriot's   Choice.      By   Rosa   N. 

Carey. 
136- In   the   Schillingscourt.      By    E. 

Marlitt. 
1.37- Dora  Thome.    By  Charlotte   M. 

Braeme. 
138— The  Firm  of  Girdlestone.    By  A. 

Conan  Doyle. 
139— The  Lady  with  theRubies.y  By  E. 

Marlitt. 
140— The  Reproach  of  Annesley.    By 

Maxwell  Grey. 
141— Moths.    By  "  Ouida." 

142— Tempest-Tossed.      By   Theodore 

Tilton. 
143— The  Woman  in  White.    By  Wilkie 

Collins. 
144— The  Hunchback  of  Notre  Dame. 

By  Victor  Hugo. 
145— Tom  Cringle's  Log.    By  Michael 

Scott. 
146— Clara  Vaughan.    By  R.  D.  Black- 
more. 
147— In  the  Heart  of  the  Storm.    By 

Maxwell  Grey. 
148— A  March  in  the  Ranks.    By  Jessie 

Fothergill. 
149— Molly  Bawn.    By  "The  Duchess." 


150— Madcap    Violet. 
Black. 


By    William 


For  sals  hy  all  BoohseUers  and  Newsdealers,  or  icill  be  sent  post-paid  on 
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Fork,  Price  25  cents  per  c®py. 


BURT'S  HOME  LIBRARY. 

Comprising  two  hundred  and 
fifty  titles  of  standard  wr::ks,  em- 
bracing fiction,  essays,  poetry, 
history,  travel,  etc.,  selected  from 
the  world's  best  literature,  written 
by  authors  of  world-wide  repu- 
tation. Printed  from  large  type, 
on  good  paper,  and  bound  in 
handsome  cloth  binding,  uni- 
form with  this  volume.  Price, 
75  cents  per  copy. 


Adam  Sede.    By  Cfeorge  Eliot 
^sop's  Fables. 

Alhambra,  The.     By  Washington 

Irviiif?. 
Alice  Lorraine.     By  R.  D.  Black- 

moiv. 
All  Sorts  and  Conditions  of  Men. 

By  Besam  and  Rice. 
Andersen's  Fairy  Tales. 

Arabian     Nights    Enter- 
tainments. 
Armadale.    By  Wilkie  Collins. 

Armorel  of  Lyonesse.    By  Walter 

Besant. 
Avild  Iiicht  Idylls.     By  James  M. 

Barrie. 
Aunt  Diana.    By  Rosa  N.  Carey. 

Autobiography      of     Benjamin 

Franklin. 
Averil.    By  Rosa  N.  Carey. 


Bacon's  Essays. 


By  Francis  Bacon. 
By 


Barbara  Heathcote'a  Trial. 

Rosa  N.  Carey. 
Barnaby     Rudge.       By     Charles 

Dickens. 
Berber,  The.    By  W.  S.  Mayo. 

Betrothed,  The.      By  Allessandro 

Manzoni. 
Bleak  House.    By  Charles  DickenS. 

Bondman,  The.    By  Hall  Caine. 


By  Georgs 
By 


Bride  of  the  Nile,  The 

Ebers. 
Burgomaster's  Wife,    The. 

George  Ebers. 
Cast  up  by  the  Sea.  -By  Sir  Samuel 

Baker. 
Caxtons,  The.    By  Bulwer-Lytton. 


Charles  Auchester. 


By  E.  Berger. 
By    Charles 
By  Re. 


Charles    O'Malley, 

Lt.'ver. 
Children  of  tne  Abbey. 

tfitia  JIaria  Roche. 
Children  of  Gibeon.     By  Walter 

Besaut. 
Child's  History  of  England.    By 

Charles  Dickens. 
Christmas    Stories.      By   Charles 

Dickeus. 
Cloister   and    the   Hearth.     By 

Charles  Reade. 
Confessions  of  an  Opium-Eater. 

By  Thomas  De  Quiucey. 
Consuelo.    By  George  Sand. 

Corinne.    By  Madame  De  StaeL 

Countess  of  Budolstadt.  By 
George  Sand. 

Cousin  Pons.  By  Honore  de  Bal- 
zac. 

Cranf  ord.    By  Mrs.  GaskelL 

Crown  of  Wild  Olive,  The.    By 

John  Ruskin. 
Daniel  Deronda.    By  George  Eliot. 

Daughter  of  an  Empress,  The. 

By  Louisa  Mulilbach. 


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